Howlin' For You
by Max Rasgar
Summary: A Warehouse 12 adventure: The year is 1893 and H.G. Wells is investigating a 'curiosity' or two with her trusty partner Wolcott along with my addition of Arthur Conan Doyle, but what will happen when they encounter a time traveler from the future? And even with the aide of H.G.'s mentor Caturanga will the mystery behind the stranger be unraveled and with no consequences?
1. Chapter I: Traveling Expense

Disclaimer: Must I state the ugly truth? Fine if it must be done: I don't own the characters that I'm using for my enjoyment and our collective mental health betterment, Syfy owns them.

A/N: This is so very AU but I don't see how that's a bad thing considering how this story will play out. So how about we just label this as H.G. being her 'Holy Wow-Wow' self back in her Warehouse 12 days, along with some friends. Also, this story will be told exclusively in H.G.'s POV.

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**[Howlin' For You]**

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**I. Traveling Expense**

Today is November 12th of 1893 and I was handed a curiosity nearly two days ago now to investigate. A simple caretaker was reported missing by his family; a man whose life consisted traveling from his work to his home without delay for over twenty years, vanished a week ago. Mr. Wolcott is my partner and normally it would just be the two of us. However at the Regents request, not to mention that of my other superiors, we were assigned another fellow agent to accompany us.

I have no objections to another temporary partner given that sometimes with rotations being what they are Warehouse agents may be required to take an alternate partner from time to time. However, I still protest such protocols here and there but not for this mission. My mindset is that the task Wolcott and I were handed would go faster and smoother with assistance from an agent that has been doing this work longer than Wolcott and myself combined. I've not forced myself to like this development but things could always be worse or tedious.

Our journey began with a train ride to cover the most distance to our very rural and final destination. Then upon disembarking at the railway station; just off the platform, a first-class carriage with an added Warehouse extra was awaiting us. The extra feature being a secret purple lined storage compartment designed for transporting artifacts. In this moment and a great many hours later I consult my pocket watch to see that it's one and a quarter hour before the witching hour as it is called arrives and tomorrow will become today the 13th.

With sigh I replace my timepiece inside of my vest's front pocket and close my eyes for a moment; it has been several cumbersome hours since our last rest stop. A chill abruptly invades my person even in the confines of the carriage, so I pull my waistcoat tighter around my body before tugging my overcoat together. The night air is cold and unforgiving this time of year in England, but then again the cool rains that will eventually reside in this area are none too appealing either.

"Why must all the ghostly artifacts always fall into my hands to deal with?"

I turn to look at my other field partner for this mission; who surprisingly has remained quiet for a good five minutes. Arthur Conan Doyle, who is also an aspiring writer like myself, but he is as of yet unpublished. He is also nearly seven years my senior and a Scotsman, but also a brilliant man of many skills and a Warehouse legend. Traveling with him the last two days has been interesting, but I must say the absolute highlight thus far was driving the carriage earlier to relieve Wolcott for a spell. Doyle refused a rotation and I may only drive the carriage when not among the populated areas. So sexist and bloody useless society's standards are and I also wouldn't hesitate to call them a nuisance in the same breath.

I chuckle, "You do like to exaggerate don't you Mr. Doyle? I would hardly call the one mission to snag the rigging rope from the Mary Celeste, as all the supernatural curiosities being forced upon you."

**"**I snagged that artifact before you even saw the doors that open to the Warehouse's floors, Wells."

"I wasn't belittling your skills, Mr. Doyle." I say while glancing at him. "In fact that rigging rope is a rather nasty piece of work, but I wonder how exactly did it become a ghost ship in the first place?"

"Apologies Wells, I'm just taking a piss out of you. I thoroughly enjoy the supernatural aspect of this work, otherwise I wouldn't be here." Doyle says laughing. "Also I consider myself duly bound to inform you that even the lateness of the hour and the chill in the air do nothing to dampen my jovial mood. But to answer your question and it's merely my opinion mind you, but I believe that the ship became a cursed vessel because it was possibly built from lumber harvested off an Indian burial ground from America."

"A sound theory." I say turning back to look out the portal on my side as our carriage toddles on.

The movement of the carriage occasionally jostles Mr. Doyle and I over the gravel path that is only moderately rutted out by the rainy weather as of late. I'm very aware of Doyle's growing affinity on spiritual matters and there is even talk in our circles that he will retire from being an agent within the new year.

"Tell me something, Wells. Does it bother you that your brother absolutely bathes in your literary glory like a pig in its morning slop?"

I smirk at the jest evident in Doyle's tone and because of its truth, no matter how blunt and plainly stated. My brother does relish his petty victory in name only, but to hear him talk while we entertain guests is more than I can bear sometimes.

"I won't lie and say that it doesn't sting. But that's only the case when I have to listen to his preening in my parlor amongst guests." I say. "However I care very little even then, because I live a far more enriching life than Charles will ever deign to."

The horse whinnies and the carriage halts abruptly and I brace myself against the seat. My counterpart almost slides off the carriage's seat altogether but rights himself quickly.

"Wolcott, what on Earth is the problem!" Doyle questions loudly, while moving aside the glass window and then sticking his head out of the portal on his side of the cabin. "Or were you simply taking upon yourself to make sure Wells and I don't fall asleep since you can't?"

"It's nothing...the horse just spooked." Wolcott replies. "And we're almost there."

The carriage begins to move forward again, only at a much more clipped pace. Doyle leans back inside, reaches over and closes the portal's glass. Silence falls in the cabin once more, save for the rocks crunching under the carriage that is in a perfect cacophony with the horse's shod hoofs, which are making their own distinction on the artful rubble. I would let the silence stand at any other time but I feel as though I'm being studied; weighed and measured if you will. But I'm also curious by nature.

"Do you still practice medicine?" I say to my traveling companion in the seat across the way from me.

"Of course. And it would appear that the Regents have no objections to me having a day job or two." Doyle replies and I smile at his use of charm. "Otherwise they would've erased my memory and run me off by now."

Although Doyle is a stocky man, he is not at all unattractive and I consider him an intellectual equal. I've found that conversing with him over the last few months; albeit sporadically, since our introduction has been pleasurable. But that damned mustache, so like Charles' own equally ridiculous one. Why must the men of my time feel it's necessary for such an adornment? Where in their thinking do they equate facial hair with being the pinnacle of masculinity?

Scratchy kisses that leave a rash on your cheek are nothing to be desired in my mind, but then again I've preferred the intimate company of a woman over a man on many occasions. Also, I have it on good authority that Doyle is to be engaged soon to a woman named Mary Louise Hawkins, so his increasing interests in me may just be for sport. I, however will not entertain such a folly with him nor any other man that I'm employed alongside of.

"Apologies again, Wells." Doyle says in my silence. "I promise my intentions toward you are not of a lecherous quality. In truth I have come to admire you greatly for your keen reasoning and deductive logic, so much so as you have inspired me to rewrite, modify if you will, a character I created a while ago in my detective writings."

"I beg your pardon?" I ask making eye contact with a now smiling Doyle.

I feel as though the man read my mind, but I also wasn't attempting to hide my emotions behind a mask. Sometimes a look can convey so much more than mere words.

"Sherlock Holmes." Doyle says. "Of course he must have a worthy partner in his adventures; thus Dr. Watson, who is fashioned mostly after myself. But the more I pour over my first drafts, the more I felt Holmes was missing something and you have been unknowingly providing me with the character traits that he was lacking."

"What the devil are you going on about?"

Doyle smirks, "Don't be daft, Wells. You are becoming a legend in your own right and on many levels, and by that right what could possibly be so bothersome with you being a worthy muse?"

"The character is a man." I reply. "Must I be made into yet another version of the male species?"

Doyle laughs and the sound fills the carriage, "That's another trait Holmes has inherited now courtesy of you; razor sharp wit and humor."

"We're finally here." Wolcott announces loudly as the carriage comes to a halting standstill.

"And not a moment too soon." I say while reaching for the wooden latch on the carriage door.

Doyle chuckles under his breath as I open the door and step out into the night. The air is brisk enough that my breath shows with each exhalation. And on this somewhat moonlit night; clouds passing overhead shade the view at times, I can still see well hedged fields off in the distance to my right. Wolcott urges the horses forward and moves the carriage off the roadway to park it. Once Wolcott has moved our mode of transportation a rather unkempt and derelict looking cemetery appears in my line of sight. The action of the moment lends itself to the notion that the cemetery was just born out of the shadows.

I hear Doyle and Wolcott off near the carriage conversing about whether or not they will need their firearms. I on the other hand have no need for such a ghastly weapon, so I move closer to the cemetery as my partner's square themselves away. Two tall twisted trees frame the ends of a high wrought iron gates that are decorated with dead vines that are weaving themselves into their well-placed spaces, and the lock on the once proud gates are broken, rust-coated.

Clearly it's a private burial plot but all that remains of the family emblem is an ornate 'B' and it would appear that there are no longer any surviving wealthy family members in these lands to ensure its upkeep, so it has fallen into disarray by default. A faint wind stirs which causes a few stray locks of my hair blow across my forehead, but I quickly tuck the runaways back behind my ear. How the seemingly mighty have fallen and I'll not shed a tear for those kinds of people, who in my mind only ever achieve their monetary wealth off the sweat and toil of others.

I turn away from the deathly view towards a path in the distance. I notice Doyle and Wolcott approaching; their movements are easy enough to track due to the kerosene lantern Wolcott is carrying aloft. I do hope they're armed accordingly and to their satisfaction.

"Alright gentlemen, once more into the breach." I say while walking towards the fine graveled path ahead that will no doubt lead to the house's main grounds and eventually the front door. "And no dawdling behind me, Wolly."

My partner Wolcott smirks at me as we start walking, and then looking up to the lightened sky I notice that the moon is a rather unsuspecting pale yellow in color. The moon lights our way somewhat and my companions cover ground to match their pace with that of mine. I have thrown myself into harm's way on many occasions, as it is the very nature of my job. However, as of now I feel that this mission will be one of the more colorful and that it will stand out amongst the others for the rest of my days to come.

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**Soundtrack:****"Planet Telex" &amp; "My Iron Lung" by Radiohead**

**Parting Words:** **I chose to write this differently than my usual 'style'. So this story is more minimalistic and old-fashioned (this is a period piece after all) which roughly means more blanks for ****your**** imagination to fill in.**


	2. Chapter II: The Manor

**II. The Manor**

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"Don't even pretend to be offended about what I said, Wells." Doyle says as we walk along the lengthy pathway towards the predictably grandiose house. "Because we both know you're not."

The fine gravel crunches and slides underfoot, but more so under Wolcott and Doyle's heavy strides when compared to mine.

"I plainly stated my best objection." I reply. "That being said though, I shall endeavor to try and not inspire you further."

"Come now Wells, I wasn't the one who gave you a hard time during your first year."

I turn to look at Doyle; his black hat is pushed down rather far upon his head, to the degree that it's almost touching his prominent eyebrows. I find it nearly comical that he thinks my true unvoiced objections are based on the spiteful berating's that I endured during my first year as an agent apprentice.

"I am fully aware that you did not partake in such childish activities, for example writing rude verses in the walls." I reply walking slightly faster along the path. "It was Kipling."

Doyle laughs and his exhalations become a swift, retreating fog in the cool night air.

"You know old Rudy was the teacher's pet until you came along, and additionally Rudy always was a rather constipated chap. Then add to the fact that Caturanga took such a shine to you and also holds your writings in high regards." Doyle says. "Wells, it all compounded and just twisted poor Rudy's trousers in all sorts of devilish ways."

I laugh despite myself; it would be impossible for a person not to like Doyle. But I have found that most people desperately need everyone to like them in at least some small way.

"Regardless, I still do not wish to be the inspiration that helps you develop your fictional character."

"Wolcott what say you?" Doyle asks having clearly lost patience with me. "It seems that Wells here doesn't want to be immortalized in fiction as the greatest detective alive."

"In all fairness I think she already is in real life, Sir." Wolcott replies and I smile at my partner's words. "Perhaps, the issue is as I heard her state in the carriage."

Walking along sandwiched between them I listen as they talk over me but not too intently. I do admire Doyle's confidence that his writings will be heralded in due time. But for now my sole focus in these early hours of night; lit only by the small kerosene lamp Wolcott is carrying as we continue up the long pathway, is that with each advancing step the manor ahead is already becoming a looming presence. Even in near darkness the manor's gothic revival architectural style has a profound distinction that always makes itself known to the eyes, whether it be in the bright light of day or the somber cloak of night.

"The Borley Rectory." Doyle says. "This place has been said to be haunted since it was built. I've always wanted to see it up close."

We stop on the path and Wolcott's hand that is holding the lamp falters ever so slightly, but I grab his arm to prevent him from dropping our only real source of light. Wolcott turns and smiles at me in silent thanks as he pushes his hat down on his head further with his unoccupied hand. The sounds of this unfamiliar night do demand a stout constitution, and in the face of this corpse-like silence only the sounds of turning leaves being swept along by the passing breezes fill the void.

"I too am familiar with its legacy if you would call it that." I say somewhat pleased but more by the fact that all conversation on my status as a muse is now irrelevant. "The most infamous story about these very grounds in my mind happened in 1362. A monk from the nearby monastery carried on a relationship with a nun from a nearby convent. And when their affair was discovered, the monk was executed and the nun was bricked up alive inside her convent's walls."

Wolcott inhales sharply and Doyle laughs. My partner is quite excitable and I dare say even more highly strung at odd times like these.

"Not afraid are you, Wolly?"

"Certainly not." Wolcott replies to my teasing.

The wind picks up and a few curls escape from my tight bun again, and I reach up and brush them off my forehead. A quiet moment passes between the three of us, and the wind abruptly ceases, as if someone simply closed it off; like shutting a door to stop a draft. Wolcott turns to look behind us; Doyle and I follow suit. The silence is unnatural, even the sounds of the night have gone away. Then in the distance are the unmistakable sounds of hurried hoofs upon gravel approaching. The noise increases only now the thudding of the hooves are paired with the racket of a carriage's wooden wheels at an ever quickening pace invades the sudden stillness.

"H.G. are we expecting someone else?" Wolcott says.

But before an answer can be given the wind blows cold against my face, and I feel as if a chilled blade is slicing its way through my coat. I stand fast in the direction of the sound and unless my eyes have resorted to playing tricks on me, I can only be amazed as a mist-like horse drawn carriage races towards us. My heart picks up its cadence at sight and then to a greater rhythm when I completely take in the sight of the two headless drivers perched atop the bench governing the reins of the carriage.

The snaps of the leather against the horse's quarters sounds authentic to my ears, as the nearly transparent entities barrel down upon us. A rational person would leap out of the way I suppose but I close my eyes as I feel my body freeze colder than any winter wind is capable of as the ghost carriage passes through us; the cold lingers in my very bones, and then it disappears just as quickly as it manifested itself. I slowly open my eyes to see that Wolcott fell off to the side, but Doyle stands just as tall as ever.

"My word." Doyle says sounding short of breath. "That was fantastic! I can't wait to go into the house!"

I exhale deeply and my breath fogs the air, "I have a feeling you will disappointed with the house. But we must do what we came here for, and fetch the two artifacts that have no doubt leant their magic to this place."

"Two?" Wolcott asks, his voice only slightly wavering from the excitement and more than a healthy tinge of fear.

Wolcott huffs as he rights himself and then he picks up the discarded kerosene lantern that managed to stay upright and remain lit.

"Yes, Wolcott. We have two spirited artifacts that go bump in the night." Doyle says. "Also, we may even have to split up and search separately once inside."

I very nearly fail to mask my chuckle at Doyle teasing Wolly. I myself am also guilty of having a few laughs at my partner's expense; he does make it ever so easy. But Wolcott has a sense of humor of his own, although it's a side he doesn't show to someone whom he has just met. This I know to be true because it took some doing before I was able to even get a laugh out of him. After shaking off our first encounter on this night the three of us once more make our way towards the house and its now visible outdoor adornments.

"Oh look Wolcott...a fountain." Doyle says. "Lovely nude nymphs, but I wouldn't shine that light of yours upon them. For they might come alive and snatch you right out of your trousers and make you their willing prisoner among their endowments."

Chuckling I move ahead of my fellow agents; my night vision is excellent, and walk up the stone steps to the manor. The door looks worse for wear; weather-beaten and in dire need of a fresh coat of paint. I reach into my inner overcoat pocket for my tools. Just as I kneel down I hear Wolcott and Doyle step onto the porch; Doyle apparently having finished teasing Wolly about the nude sculptures breasts adorning that piteous attempt at landscaping.

Picking the poor excuse for a door lock is quick work and with a nudge the front door swings open with a creak. I replace my lock-picking tools within my coat as Wolcott almost timidly walks ahead since he is our light in this darkened world. I openly admire what I can see of the walnut-paneled walls that seem to have been applied on every surface that can be seen from this vantage point.

"Wolcott and I will look around upstairs." Doyle says. "You take this level and we will be back down to collect you in say...fifteen minutes?"

I nod my head and glance around for a useable candle of some sort. On a small table a lone candle is still situated in a rather old holder with a large and heavily tarnished brass base. I grasp the candelabra and it fills my hand nicely; impressive cobwebs cling after it. The visual alone makes me think that the spiders meant to anchor the candle and its holder to the small table. Wolcott offers his lamp to light the candle but I have no need for that. I produce a small box of matches from my coat pocket and in a flick and snick I say let there be light and there is.

With the accumulated illumination of my candle and Wolcott's lantern the house seems to expand before our eyes. The entry hallway is only the beginning of the place that was designed to awe whomever sets foot in here. A grand staircase that looks rather like an enormous horseshoe announces itself immediately and even with the grime from neglect a person need not to have much of an imagination to know the amount of pride in craftsmanship that went into its creation.

"Fifteen minutes then gentleman and good luck." I say with a smirk.

My two cohorts move towards the grand staircase; Wolcott leading the way since I imagine Doyle doesn't want the smell of kerosene upon his prim suit. The pair of them are quite a sight; Doyle is eleven years Wolly's senior but the both of them have an affinity for the same style of hat.

"I wanted to go with H.G., Mr. Doyle." I hear Wolcott say lowly as the two of them ascend the elaborate wooden staircase.

"Too bad you're stuck with me. So do try to make the best of it and stop whining like a young lad with a skinned knee." Doyle says mockingly and I repress a chuckle while walking out of earshot to begin my search towards the ladies library, as it is called.

Moving down the long hallway I see that the walls still hold grand but faded and graying oil paintings of portraits and landscapes. And in keeping with the vacant quality of this house, a layer of dust is lying upon them which add to their now ghostly texture. Empty urns that once held flowers to freshen the home are empty vessels now; they now only hold emptiness. I can foresee the grandness that was intended for this place, even though it was built to house many and not necessarily the well to do. A cold permeates the air and I wonder if this house is anything at all like the Mary Celeste. My Tesla presses into my side as I button my long overcoat to ward off the unyielding chill that seems to have embedded itself in this place.

I emerge inside the ladies library and moving along the walls I light a few stray candles with mine that are scattered about the room. It would appear that no one was interested in taking anything with them but the clothes on their back; they left all of what I would consider worthy possessions behind-books. A wealth of knowledge surrounds me and how I would love to peruse every volume but that is not why I'm here. Still I run my hand along the shelves, noting how whoever shelved them arranged the tomes by genre. The previous tenants were decidedly into the occult and a vast majority of the titles lend themselves to that subject alone.

A book catches my eye; John Milton's 'Paradise Lost'. I remove it from its place and then turning it over in my hands I see it's a very fine edition; leather bound with gold filigree lettering stating its title proudly. I open the book and the pages still sound crisp to my ears and this particular volume is in Latin. It has been awhile since I read the language, but I turn the pages to a particularly profound line that I will always remember and recognize. 'The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell; a hell of heaven.' My thoughts however are redirected and I smile at the clamor I hear approaching; my two fellow agents have returned.

"Did you find anything of importance upstairs?" I say not taking my eyes off the book in my hands.

I know they did not since in all logic it would not be wise to hide secret things in obvious places and in full view of curious eyes, which inevitably leads to wandering hands.

"Obviously not, Wells. Unless you call spider webs and filth a treasure trove more valuable than gold." Doyle says. "Have you found anything that shouts artifact in here?"

I look up and even in the dimness I see that Doyle has a large cobweb affixed to the front of his hat; accidentally I would imagine.

"I suspect there's a hidden compartment located somewhere within these shelves."

"How do you figure that, H.G.?" Wolcott says earnestly as he places the kerosene lamp down upon the desk just behind us.

I replace the copy of Paradise Lost and run my hands along the bookshelves looking for the trigger so to speak, and following my example Doyle does the same. A layer of dust collects rapidly on my fingertips and I believe my gloves will not be fit for anything but the rubbish pile after this mission.

"It's all elementary, Mr. Wolcott." I say. "And I asked myself where would I hide something? The answer being the very place where a person of means spends most of their time; a study or library if you will. And if you recall I've built many secret compartments into many places in my home, therefore it's merely deductive reasoning."

I hear Doyle chuckle and oddly I had forgotten that he was privy to mine and Wolly's exchange.

"Sherlock is going to say that, only of course it will be to Dr. Watson." Doyle says and I turn around slowly from the bookcase to glare in his general direction. "It's elementary my dear Watson. I do like the sound of that."

Finally catching Doyle's eye he merely smirks at me in return before resuming his search, although from my vantage point he doesn't seem to be looking all that thoroughly. I shake my head and move along the shelves; my fingertips dragging along each books dusty spine.

"Found it." I announce as my hand hits a rather uncommonly firm and unmoving book on the shelf. "Not all that original but I suppose they were firm believers in the adage: 'if it's not broke, don't fix it'."

Whoever designed this switch lacked imagination because it's nowhere near as clever as my triggers. In fact the false book has a clumsy and rather awkward feel but nonetheless it's effective. With that thought acknowledged I pull the book and mechanism gives way and then the bookcase adjacent to Wolcott swings open to reveal its secrets to our prying eyes.

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**Soundtrack: ****"Scream!" by Misfits, "Tiny Monsters" by Puscifer &amp; "She's Electric" by Oasis**

**Parting Words:**** Hope you're enjoying the humor and everything else. I never said this story was going to be some dark, dismal thing. And this is not about werewolves; there aren't any nor will there be any. The title will make sense eventually.**


	3. Chapter III: Mephistopheles

**III. Mephistopheles**

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Since I cannot be certain the trigger mechanism on the door works precisely like the ones I designed for use in my home; meaning they only close when the trigger is struck for a second time. So as a precaution I ask Wolcott to brace the bookcase with an iron fire poker from the fireplace in the library. I do not want to end up locked away in this space with its secreted and potentially dangerous contents.

"I believe our glasses would be a wise move H.G." Wolcott says as he lodges the fire poker; one end against a key point on the bookcase's backing and the other at an ideal angle leveraged to the floor. "There...that should hold it."

"Agreed." I reply as I reach into my inner coat pocket and remove my Warehouse issued glasses.

The small round gold frames hold the purple-tinted lens that are meant to curb any artifact intoxication that may occur due to us simply looking at a questionable object. My two partners follow suit and with my vision now violet colored, I turn and smile at Wolly. I've always felt that he is habitually undervalued by the other agents, simply because of his youth, general disposition and boyish enthusiasm. But in my mind its sound reasoning to conclude that if Wolly's abilities were lacking, then he wouldn't have been chosen to be a Warehouse agent. I enjoy my partner's personality a great deal; he is very witty and makes me laugh and smile on more than a few occasions.

"Lead the way, Wells." Doyle prompts rather impatiently to my ears.

As we step into the rather large secret room I notice that the walls are cloaked in what looks like an ancient tapestry. Its dark red fibers appear to billow and flow like blood laced with scrolls of gold running in intricate patterns; some mimic flowers, vines, while the majority remind me of Celtic dragons that seem to converge in the center, yet sprawl outwards to the very borders. This quite large and alive looking tapestry may very well be an artifact itself, but we are not equipped to transport anything of its size. Looking around the study I can account that it does in fact house even more text. And I dare not imagine what else may lie in here, not from fear mind you, but this space is almost a wonder in itself.

"That has to be the book." Doyle says. "This bloody place just shouts obvious."

I turn to look at the section of the room quarantined off from the extensive bookshelves that line the walls not covered in the tapestry. It looks almost like an alter and an abandoned one at that.

"Hidden, yet in plain sight." Wolcott says. "It may just be me or does that not sound very much like some people all of us in this room are knowledgeable of?"

I smile at Wolly's jest aimed at the Regents of Warehouse Twelve and we move towards what looks like a podium, and indeed laying upon it is a small antique chapbook. The cover has long since tried to stop showing its profound age; frail and delicate it looks upon first glance. Reading what remains of the words printed on the cover page I see that it's the first printed source of the legend of Mephistopheles. Of course I dare not touch the book with my bare hands, not solely out of sound judgement, but just how aged it appears. Normally one would think such a book would have not survived, but it is an artifact that has a life force of its own.

"Historia von D. Johann Fauste, published in 1587." I read aloud for my partners benefit. "Christopher Marlowe used this work as the basis for his play 'The Tragical History of Doctor Faustus'."

Wolcott and Doyle move closer to the elevated manuscript; they become the human equivalent of bookends on either side of my person and the small book.

"I'm quite fond of Goethe's reworking of the story." Doyle says. "He gave Faust more substance as a dissatisfied intellectual who wants more than Earthy offerings."

"Substance you say? And yet Faust didn't hesitate to ask the devil for help in seducing a young girl, even in Goethe's so called more substantial version."

Wolcott chuckles at my words and I cannot help but smirk even more than I already am.

"Touché, Wells." Doyle says.

"Faust was Marlowe's last piece and then he died mysteriously in 1593 if you recall." I say. "And I wouldn't be surprised if this unassuming book had a hand in it, so I think we should proceed with caution."

I reach into my overcoats pocket and my fingers find the purple cloth I carry for handling artifacts; Wolcott and Doyle are also be equipped with the same. I grasp the satin cloth and gently pull it from the confines of my pocket.

"Why on Earth do people toy with these things, collect such things?" Wolcott says. "And I know that whoever brought this book here had to have known it held a measure of power if you will."

Just as I prepare to pick up the small book with the purple satin cloth, Doyle leans in closer to the book and it suddenly becomes inflamed. I step back from the heat that hits my face. The book is burning yet its pages are not blackening and singeing away; neither is the podium which the book sits upon. Then as if the flame received another pyre thrown in to engorge the flame, it rises higher on its own accord. The room suddenly feels like all of the oxygen is being removed, and then in the space of time required to blink my eyes the flame goes out.

"Quick give me your cloth, Wells." Doyle says. "I'll smother the book while the fire is out."

But before I can hand Doyle the cloth, my candle and the few I lit around the room, are snuffed out all at once and the bookcase that doubles as a door slams shut. I hand the cloth to Doyle and then reach into my coat pocket for matches, to restrike my candle, but as if by reading my thoughts the candle relights itself.

"Wolly, check the doorway please." I say.

I find it fortuitous that Wolcott's lantern didn't extinguish along with my candle, and I will ponder over that little bit of luck later. Surely the Regents haven't issued us an artifact powered lantern? Handy as it now appears to be whether true or not.

"Wolcott, are we trapped?" Doyle says. "If we are I do hope you've got a strong back."

"Scorch marks on the door; it's the devil's fingerprints." Wolcott says as moves the lantern over the paneling, and even in the dimness I see the marks plainly. Then Wolcott leans down to pick up the iron fire poker, but then he drops it with a loud yelp. "The damned poker is bent and as hot as if it's been resting in hot coals for hours!"

I turn back towards the podium and I see Doyle wrapping the book in the purple cloth several times over.

"Hopefully that will hold the devil at bay." Doyle says. "There has to be another way out of this room. Wells, you can find us another way."

I nod and move across the room, back towards the bookcases, because they seem like the proper place to start searching for another trigger at the moment.

"Wolcott let's see the hand." Doyle says. It's rather convenient now that we have a doctor along with us. "Just minor burns, nothing a healthy dab of aloe won't chase away later. And the bulk of the burns are mostly concentrated on your fingertips, good thing you didn't grasp it like a cricket bat."

"Anything H.G.?" Wolcott asks with a pained hiss coloring his timbre.

I turn to see that Doyle is wrapping Wolly's damaged left hand in a handkerchief rather diligently.

"I shall find it, regardless of how hidden it might appear now." I reply as I resume running my hands along yet another shelf. "And so we don't have to find out how strong Wolly's back is."

"So until Wells delivers do try and not wet your combinations, Wolcott." Doyle says.

Once again I hold in a laugh because Doyle's spirit is truly unflappable. Also I admire his attempt to distract Wolly from his discomfort. Minutes pass and I'm having no luck, so I step back from the ornate bookcases that adorn this room in an effort to refocus my mind. I hear one of my partners approach but I don't turn in any way to see which one.

"Are we expected to find the missing caretaker too, Wells?" Doyle asks. "Because you and I both know that the poor sod is perished and not by that hellish book."

I don't startle from the abrupt yet hushed question, "No, sadly we are not expected to find him alive. But stranger things have happened and I do tend to hope for the best."

Doyle chooses to acknowledge my answer with silence as he shifts next to me and I resume my search of the shelves, but I stop and step away again.

"I'm missing something." I say aloud turning around to look at the room more closely and then I see it quite plainly.

The podium that held the book is a part of pair if you will. I walk across the room to the other matching podium and perched atop it is a rather hideous gargoyle statue. The texture of the statue is meant to simulate stone, but I know it to be a pure plaster, especially if my assumption is correct. I glance at Wolcott who simply smiles back at me. Doyle of course followed me across the room and sort of looms next to me; once more studying me. I feel like I may as well yield to notion that I'm helping him shape Sherlock Holmes which I admit is an unusual but also a original namesake.

"Gargoyles...such ugly buggers." Doyle says. "If they had a mother even she couldn't possibly deign to love that face."

I chuckle and place my hands on the base of the statue, "They are meant to frighten, Mr. Doyle. Also they are used on churches under the notion that their fearsome visage will scare away even the evilest of spirits."

"You think I might use that as an excuse the next time I don't feel like taking communion?" Doyle says and I turn to glance at him. "Tell people that the gargoyles frighten my wicked spirit."

I laugh and shake my head, "That greatly depends on if your church has them as decoration."

"I'll look into that." Doyle says. "But between you and I it's still a good excuse even without proper validation."

I chuckle and continue to inspect the small statue. The artisan who crafted this piece meant for it to look as if it had been plucked down from an ancient cathedral; teeth are missing as if many years of nature's abuse took them one by one over the statues watch, and the overall appearance of it looks very worn. I decide to place my hand into the beast's mouth. The jaw feels sturdy, yet loose, which makes me smile and I pull the faux stone mandible down. A muffled lock sounds within the walls and then I see the large tapestry flutter as the bookcase that meets at its end begins to slowly swing open.

The large bookcase moves at a snail's pace and I wonder if it's because of the combined weight of the books. Although, the elaborate scroll work engraved into the heavy mahogany wood does offer one something to look at while waiting and the experience is further enhanced by the elaborate scroll work engraved throughout and it's even between the shelves. Still it's a puzzle if the mechanism's general slowness is because it hasn't been used in a stretch of time, but to me it clearly seems to be merely a shoddy design application.

"H.G. you never fail to amaze me." Wolcott says as he moves closer to Doyle and I. "And I won't ask how you arrived at the conclusion that this ghastly statue was secretly being no more than a very ugly lock for lack of better phrasing."

"Would you favor this statue more Wolcott if it had shapely breasts?" Doyle says. "Imagine placing your hands on a pair of sumptuous bosoms not unlike the ones we admired on nymph sculptures that are proudly displayed on the fountain outside?"

I laugh out right and watch as my favorite partner blushes a very deep shade of red that would be impossible to miss even in such low light.

"Oh Wolly, you do realize you make it far too easy." I say while enjoying the momentary levity between the three of us. "And your reactions alone to such musings make the minimal effort all the more enticing."

"Mr. Doyle you are not amusing. Nor are you as of now H.G." Wolcott says as his steps closer to me, the kerosene lantern still emitting its glow, even though the faint soot that is accumulating on the globe. "But you do have a rather disgusting cobweb affixed to your hat, Doyle."

Once more I chuckle, as does Wolcott, while we watch Doyle take off his hat to remove a spider's handiwork that he ran into hat first as it were. My attention though is caught by a loud rubbing thud, and the passageway finally reveals itself to us fully. I move to stand in front of the opening; peering inside I see nothing but a long and seemingly unending darkness ahead. How fitting and utterly expected.

"Give me your lantern, Wolly?" I say and he all too happily obliges.

* * *

**Soundtrack:**** "Dominion" by The Sisters Of Mercy &amp; "Paint It Black" by GOB **

**Parting Words:** **Thoughts, opinions, word vomit...recipes for an amazing dip? You people are far too shy. But seriously are you enjoying Sir Arthur Conan Doyle as a Warehouse agent? If you recall in S3Ep5 H.G. refers to him as her good friend, and I thought I would have some fun with that.**


	4. Chapter IV: Black Shuck

**IV. Black Shuck**

* * *

With each step this dank pathway reminds me more of being in a cave. The air is even moist with the strong odor of bat droppings that have mingled with other scents that reek of nothing but decay; all of which have combined to compose the oxygen in this space that we are forced to breathe. I try not to inhale through my nose so much as I raise the kerosene lamp higher; all but willing its light to shine further ahead, as Wolcott and Doyle keep pace closely behind me.

I personally feel no fear, only exhilaration at every turn and to me Doyle seems to be along those same lines. However the same cannot be said for Wolly, but he doesn't try to hide his fear and I certainly cannot bring myself to think less of him for it. No one person is without limits and we all have a breaking point no matter how strong or fierce we think we are. My worst fear doesn't linger in the dark; it is within me, and is tied to the person who is very dear to me. If anything were to happen to my daughter I don't know what would become of me.

"I surmise this tunnel will lead up to the cemetery we saw upon entering the grounds."

"Are trying to reassure us, Wells?" Doyle says with a hint of amusement in his voice. "Or do you just feel like showing off again?"

I smirk, "A bit of both if it makes you feel better, Mr. Doyle."

The stonewalls on either side of me seem strained to my eyes, the kerosene lanterns light reveal the walls growing imperfections as we advance. And even in such poor lighting, with my purple tinged field of vision, the walls cast a sandy lime glow, when paired with the warm glow of the artificial light that I carry. The mortar between the stones are cracking and falling out, due to endless cycles of freezing and thawing over many decades that have taken their toll on its construction.

Adding to the gradual downfall has to be an unknown spring that is continuously seeping water all along the walls to my left; it's trickle audible even over our footsteps on the stone floor. After untold minutes my partners and I emerge in an open room, which is nearly perfectly circular in appearance from my vantage point. Then amid the natural sounds of this place strange, disconnected footsteps echo in the darkness behind us. It sounds like someone running towards us.

"H.G. I'll have my lantern back now if you don't mind." Wolcott says.

Doyle chuckles but I make no move to relinquish the light source in my hand, "I shall continue to carry the light Wolly."

Wolcott doesn't press the matter and as we move further into the room. Then I see the corpse of what can only be the missing caretaker and his body lies just in front of a large mirror fixed to the wall. I step closer to one side of the body and my partners flank the other side of the remains.

"Given the rate of decomposition that would be normally allowed in this space, combined with the cold still doesn't explain what I'm seeing." I say while kneeling down closer to the body at my feet. "And due to such an unnatural rate of decay the body has been spared any of nature's scavengers and lies untouched."

Yet like any lifeless organic waste matter the putrid stench has been absorbed into the air and with each inhalation it fills my nostrils. But what strikes me most is the way his skin is so tightly drawn over his face; he looks every bit like the life was drawn out of him. What's left of his eyes have already clouded over and retracted further into the sockets of his skull.

"Wells, this is highly alarming." Doyle says as I rise from my crouched position. "Normally the abdomen would be swollen and his skin would be present; though marbled with black veins, but this man exhibits all the symptoms of a corpse that has been dead for over a year."

I nod my head in agreement and then looking up from the corpse I spot my reflection in the mirror staring back at me.

"And there is our second artifact. The mirror that was owned by Geoffrey Chaucer. He was an author of course, but he also dabbled with alchemy and astronomy." I say. "It's a guess at best, but it is my speculation that he procured the mirror during his tenure as a Parliament member for Kent in 1386 which is when he began work on 'The Canterbury Tales'. Then in September of 1390 Chaucer was robbed and injured during that unpleasant business and as documented he passed in 1400."

"The Squire's Tale is the story I presume." Wolcott says. "And I suppose the mirror chooses its victims as per the story say; revealing the hearts and minds of those who gaze at it, and then it takes all that a man will ever possess, not even anything he will ever own mind you-his soul."

"Impressive Wolcott." Doyle says.

I smile and silently agree with my partners logic, but I fear that the mirror also targets those with a longing unfulfilled desires and those with a quiet desperation about them. I've read Chaucer's story many times over and each time I come away with another level of understanding of the subtle undertones in each tale. Now I wonder if there is a ring of Chaucer's imbued with the power of understanding birds, but I dare not entertain the notion of a brass steed of some sort that can teleport.

"I'm sorry that we couldn't save this poor chap." Doyle says while taking off his hat briefly before replacing back on his head and Wolcott responds in kind with the same gesture. "But maybe when we neutralize the mirror, hopefully it will release his soul."

"Possibly." I say. "And my guess is that the caretaker found the mirror by blind exploration, and then it simply drew his soul out of his body."

"Wells, I vote we throw a shroud over that thing post haste and press on." Doyle says as he reaches into his coat pocket and produces his own artifact cloth. "Unless you think it's wise on stand on ceremony."

"Have at it." I say as I step back and look on as Doyle throws the purple satin cloth over the mirror.

With the mirror safely covered Doyle. He and Wolcott begin to remove it from its perch upon the wall.

"I see now why the Regents had me tag along with you and Wolcott here." Doyle says which makes me smirk. "To do some of the heavy lifting."

I smirk but then a great tremor moves everything underfoot; it's as if the Earth itself where shaking a great weight from its heavily burdened shoulders. A great howl then resounds in the night outside; a more fearsome sound than any wolf that may be out for a nocturnal walk.

"What in the thunder was that?" Wolcott asks while gripping one end of the rather large mirror.

"How the devil should I know, Wolcott?" Doyle says. "Just hold up your end of this bloody damn heavy mirror. Put your back into it."

Glancing around the room I notice a lone torch holder and I assume it to be another poorly hidden trigger. So I move forward with the lamp and pull down on it. A small section of the curved walls shudder and with the groaning rub of stone sliding upon a stone floor another opening presents itself to us. My partners eagerly follow behind me with the mirror in tow. Leading the way along a decidedly narrower but blessedly short passageway, I emerge into an empty tomb that is but a doorway to the tunnels.

"Wells, we are moving a heavy old sodding mirror in the dark." Doyle shouts from the passageway; his and Wolly progress much slower than mine. "It would be ever so kind of you if you could get back here and shed some light us chaps left behind?"

As usual Doyle's words are meant in jest but this time a noticeable strain was present.

"My apologies gentleman." I say loudly as I walk back over to the tunnel entrance and hold the lantern aloft. Within a few moments my partner's become visible to me. "Better?"

"I should say so H.G." Wolcott says. "Expect me to be cross with you for leaving me in the dark with Doyle."

I laugh at the brief smile Wolly's affords me, "I feel duly bound to tell you both that a good old fashioned doorway is all that remains until we are out of here."

"You know Wolcott I'm offended." Doyle says. "Left in the dark with me; just what was that supposed to infer?"

I shake my head and move across the room back towards the doorway. Clearing away old cobwebs with my already beyond saving gloves I shuffle them off the gates before us.

"Wells, get that damn door open." Doyle huffs. "This thing continues to be anything but feather light."

Standing back I raise my right foot and kick the rusted lock, and the gate gives way but only at the hinges. I move the dilapidated gate out of the way; dried grapevines and ivy cling to it.

"H.G. I'm rightly glad we left the carriage close to the cemetery." Wolcott says, his voiced sounding strained also. "Because Mr. Doyle is right that this mirror is rather heavy and my strong back is weakening."

I smirk and step out of the tomb with my partners behind me. Trying to find a path that is not cluttered by various broken, fallen over headstones appears daunting.

"Follow closely gentlemen and I will do my best to lead you through an easy path." I say. "So you two may be more quickly unburdened from the heavy load the both of you feel the need to remind me of every few minutes."

Doyle and Wolcott chuckle lowly as they move closer to me. I smirk as I look for a direct and manageable path, but within a few small steps a fog bank unlike anything I've ever laid eyes on begins to roll through the tombstones around me. As the fog descends in the cemetery it seems to form around my feet; almost like hands trying to root me to that one spot. I press through the thick mist and yes I'm relieved to see that the carriage is precisely where we left it.

"Hurry and place the mirror in the containment carrier on the carriage." I say as the kerosene lamp flickers; it would appear that it actually runs on the fuel that it smells so strongly of.

Wolcott and Doyle hurry past me with the mirror. Doyle firmly shuts the lid on the storage after the mirror is secured inside and he has enough foresight to not place that book inside along with the mirror. God knows what kind of havoc it would cause with those two artifacts in close proximity to one another. Doyle walks around the carriage and opens one of the side compartments that is also made for temporarily storing artifacts and carefully puts the book inside; still wrapped in my purple satin cloth.

"These blasted glasses are coming off now." Doyle says as he removes his and folds them neatly before replacing them inside his inner coat pocket. "The longer I wear those things the more I fear that one day all I'll be able to see is the color purple."

I chuckle as I look to Wolly who is carefully examining the makeshift bandage on his hand with a pained expression.

"My left hand is smarting something awful after carrying that mirror." Wolcott says as he too removes his Warehouse glasses one-handed. "And my right is starting to cramp too."

"Oh, put your gloves on whiny." Doyle says. "The cold won't be doing the burns any favors and the padding will feel nice I would imagine."

"Quite right." Wolcott replies producing his gloves from his from the pocket of his overcoat.

A sudden chill seems to run alongside the blood in my veins, which brings a shiver forth from me that wasn't caused by anything weather related.

"Something is afoot gentlemen." I say while turning around; holding the kerosene lantern higher.

The floating carpet of mist that haunts the graveyard is moving towards us on the side road. But this is no normal valley fog that is common in these parts so close to the winter solstice.

The rapidly cooling air blows, thickens and then I see tiny water droplets condensing on the lantern's globe and on the sleeve of my overcoat. I feel dampness seeping through to my skin. Then another loud howl resounds in the air and I turn away from my partners towards the direction the howling originated from. Of course it would be the cemetery just behind us.

The fog bank thickens and then surrounds us; like a silent army flanking us from all sides, and with the moon in play it looks as if it were lit from within. Doyle and Wolcott move in closer behind me and then the lantern's light finally extinguishes. I let the lamp fall to the ground as I watch a shape form and then begin to stalk out of the fog. A great dark shadow is slicing its way through with each step in the shape of a hound but much larger in scope. I can only stand amazed at this gothic unveiling of a ghost dog. Could it be the legend I've researched? The mythical Black Shuck?

"My sainted hat!" Wolcott says. "I would be rather inclined to say that were a just hound of some sort, but I have never seen a dog of that size nor a ghost of one."

I look on at the beast as more of it is revealed. Smoke seems to emanate from its great muzzle and coal black fur. Its visage is how I would imagine a dragon to breathe when it isn't spewing forth a frothy flame and that same breath seeps from its scales. The creature's eyes are a glowing yellow; unspeakably bright, and they seem to penetrate one's soul should you be brave enough to meet its demonic gaze. The stillness is disquieting; like the perpetual calm before the torrent, but I am ready and one would say I was born that way. No one stands behind a coward or beside one.

"What artifact could summon such beast?" Doyle says. "Such an apparition...and an abomination. The Black Shuck itself."

No artifact is responsible for this but I do not get an opportunity to say so. In an instant I'm thrown violently across the grounds; Doyle and Wolcott as well, and we all lie stunned amid this beastly vision that is all too real.

"You know it is said that to meet him is to be warned that your death will occur before the end of the year." Doyle says. "So it would be wise to shut your eyes and cover your ears when you hear him howl again, and convince yourself it is only the wind."

"But I'm a woman Doyle and from what I've read of the legends; the Black Shuck is meant to protect my kind."

But Doyle and Wolcott do not wait for proof of intent from the dark spectral entity. Both produce their Warehouse issued Webley Mark One pistols and fire; one shot after another until the weapons are emptied. But the bullets looked to be absorbed into the thick pitch black fur, and the creature merely growls and shakes them off as if they were nothing more than a flea's annoying bite. I start to leverage myself up off the cold ground when Wolcott catches my eyes. I pull off my artifact glasses and discard them on the damp ground.

"H.G. I don't think your Kempo will be any more effective than our guns." Wolcott says. "Be still."

But my partner's words are not what halts my progress. My eyes catch more movement in the fog bank, and then out of its murky vapors another figure emerges; a tall lean shadow. As it advances the frame becomes unmistakably that of a woman and with each step more of her is revealed. The woman is wearing what appears to be a short brown leather coat, strange looking blue trousers paired with what looks like riding boots but with an elevated heel.

"Helena!"

I startle at this stranger who knows my name and is also brandishing a large broadsword. But then with a growl the creature turns it's attentions towards her and the woman stands her ground at the ready. From my own discipline of Kempo I see that she has her body balanced on her left foot and her right braced in front; so that she may attack from either side without losing her balance. The light from the moon seems to bounce off the sword as she holds it firmly in both hands while the creature gradually advances on her. It would take something truly unimaginable to make me fall victim to a state of hysteria, but that is not what has me stalled. I find myself transfixed on this stranger and her apparent actions on my behalf.

The creature makes several rapid steps and then lunges for her. But she brings the sword around in a downward cutting motion; throwing her shoulders into the blow, and catches the ghost dog along its flanks. A grand howling yelp fills the air. But after a few seconds the dog merely shakes it off and steps back; transferring weight to its massive hindquarters and prepares to leap. The woman sees the incoming attack and turns the sword and then the sound of bone scraping metal resounds in my ears. She effectively uses the sword's wide blade in essence as a shield to deflect the hound's gaping jaws and the creature almost appears to ricochet off the sword. Then in what I imagine is frustration, the ghost dog lets loose a deep growl that reminds me of a lion on the wild plains of Africa.

The sound seems to resonate in my chest. But the woman advances on the creature this time and with a parrying thrust she catches it in the chest. The hound staggers on its feet and she pushes the sword in further; its legs give out and it collapses at her feet with a pained exhalation. In my estimation the sword penetrated its lungs. The woman quickly withdraws the sword and then rising higher in the air she drives the pointed tip down, and once more I hear the blade hit bone with a sickening crunch. I flinch but I don't look away. Her heavy breathes are visible in the air; it's as if the fog is coming from her lungs.

Next I watch as the woman quickly removes the sword and then smartly brings it down in a hacking motion and the hound's head falls from its immense body. In those seconds, minutes I could only watch and now that the creature is ended, I quickly get to my feet and walk towards the fallen animal and its slayer. I'm just in time to see the ghostly hound disintegrate before my eyes. The stump that held the beasts head oozes slimy dark congealed blood and a horrendously foul odor fills the open air.

The beasts proud, fierce head lolls just beside the body and then in the span of mere seconds the body begins to look worm-eaten, then in a few more moments the corpse starts to dry, cracking sounds fill the air and then a phantom breeze blows away the dusty crumpled remains. After bearing witness to the hounds birth and death my eyes drift to the strange woman standing just in front of me; the body that stood between us is gone. The woman has seen everything, and yet remains there as if locked in place, looking at me and waiting. Then a flash of green hits her square in the chest and she falls backward hard. I turn to see Wolcott has in fact blasted her with his Tesla. Doyle then rushes past Wolcott towards the fallen stranger.

"And who the devil is she?" Wolcott says as he moves to stand beside me. "H.G. are you alright?"

I shake my head and turn to look at my partner, "I'm fine and as for her I haven't the first clue. But she knows my name and I suspect all of ours, because this was no chance encounter."

Wolcott and I walk those few steps towards Doyle who is gathering the unconscious woman's hands together and then cuffing her as we speak.

"She is dressed so strangely, Wells." Doyle says. "And very strong for a woman and she's quite tall too."

"What's your point aside from her state of dress?" I say. "Or am I to believe that the female of the species isn't supposed to be as strong as the male?"

"Too soon for sport, Wells?" Doyle says as he leans down to pick up the medieval weapon that fell out of the woman's hands. "And to think this stranger saved us with a sword of all things."

"No doubt an artifact of some sorts." I say as Doyle holds the sword in hand, turning it ever so slightly.

The gleaming metal of the sword's blade shines in the moon light with not a speck of blood tarnishing its smooth, sharp surface.

"She's waking up." Wolcott says.

Doyle and I turn our attentions away from the sword back to the person lying on the ground.

"Help her up then, Wolcott." Doyle says as the woman moves roughly and her restraints respond to the action.

Wolcott loosens his grip on his Tesla and then replaces it into his inner jacket pocket, before grasping the woman and helping to pull her to her feet. This is no easy feat with her hands bound even from the front.

"It would be wise if you didn't struggle while this little beauty is wrapped around your wrists." Doyle says to the woman.

She breathes harshly and I see her exhalation in the cold air before it dissipates. I don't think I stand alone when I say we are all staring at her, as if she were a phantom too.

"Who are you?" Wolcott asks.

"A Warehouse agent...from the future." The woman says. I observe her closely as she looks over my fellow agents; studying them. "And as crazy as that sounds but I have proof, so how about I tell you who you are as a start?" The woman says while turning slightly in Wolly's grasp. "You are Isaac August Wolcott partner to Helena George Wells. And of course you are Arthur Conan Doyle."

"I see and what of this sword?" Doyle says nonplussed. "Answer me, if you please."

"I picked it up in Wales." The woman says. "It's Excalibur and I knew it would come in handy."

I cannot believe this stranger but in the same instance I do. Her clothing is indeed out of place and from the looks of her it would be a safe guess to say she has been wearing them for at least a week without washing them once. And the sword of legend; let's just say at one time I would've laughed, but not anymore, not since the Warehouse has greatly expanded my already healthy imagination. Still I can only think of one reasonable option for this stranger and I don't imagine my partners will disagree with me.

"Please put her in the carriage, Mr. Wolcott." I say and my partner takes the strange woman in hand and escorts her back down towards the cemetery where our carriage awaits.

"Wait! I left my horse tied close to the house." The woman says loudly. "Set it free, please."

"It will be seen to." I say as Wolcott and the woman continue on. I turn towards my other partner, Doyle and exhale deeply. "Don't start. It's been a long night already."

"An interesting turn of events though wouldn't you say, Wells?" Doyle says.

My eyes gaze over the odd-shaped hills on the horizon that is beginning to lighten in the now early morning hours. I believe my body has surpassed exhaustion but my mind never seems to tire.

"Very much so and I hope Caturanga will know what to do with...her." I say and a brief silence fills the space and I hear my fellow agent chuckle to himself.

"I could use you opinion on something now, Wells." Doyle says. "Should I purchase this place and call it my summer cottage?"

I chuckle because I cannot seem to keep from being amused by my temporary partner.

"If it pleases you Mr. Doyle." I say turning my head to look directly at him. "And that you won't mind your ghostly neighbors visiting unannounced every now and then."

"I may have to pass on that account then, since they seem to be of the bothersome type." Doyle says with a smirk. "The endlessly needy sort if you will."

* * *

**Soundtrack:** **"No One Believes Me" by Kid Cudi, "Not Of This World" by Danzig &amp; "Pet Sematary" by Ramones**

**Parting Words:****And who could this stranger be I wonder? *laughs knowingly* I made up Wolcott's first &amp; middle name because the show didn't exactly provide it that I know of. Corrections won't be made though, because I think that what I came up with sounds fitting and cool. Also in case you're wondering the idea of the purple cloth came from seeing H.G. wrap the Astrolabe in one.**


	5. Chapter V: Stranger In A Strange Land

**V. Stranger In A Strange Land**

* * *

All evening I've fought against the knowledge that I felt a presence and I do not mean the obvious; my partners, however loathe I was to admit it. I won't entertain the notion that a person can become haunted, but since no other words can possibly allude to how I feel I will have to settle for that assessment for the time being. This person who is a stranger to me feels familiar, but I have never seen her before until tonight. What auspicious timing to add this encounter to all the others that happened while I was in that house and its surroundings.

The Borley Rectory for now remains empty, as it should be, but I imagine some unsuspecting person will come along and foolishly attempt to live in it one day. Doyle locks the door behind him with a loud snick while I untie the beautiful white horse the woman rode in on. As I run my hands through the animals course mane a thought occurs to me, and it's that I hope we do not see that ghost carriage again on a way back to our own very real one, I've had quite enough of it already. The horse trembles faintly under my touches but not in a way that makes me feel my attentions are unwelcome.

"Impressive animal wouldn't you say, Wells? It'd be a shame to just leave her here." Doyle says as he moves closer to me and the horse. "Uncommonly beautiful, powerful and I'm not only speaking about the horse."

"Yes, but she can stay here." I say and the animal turns its head and nudges me on the arm with her nose. I smile at the action on pure reflex. "As for your other observations they are noted and summarily dismissed."

"Where has your humor gone so suddenly?" Doyle says. "But since you feel that strongly why are bringing her along, Wells."

The teasing quality to his voice eludes to me nothing but hidden subtext. Perhaps it's him questioning my decision to bring the stranger along, but more than likely he means it in the sense of my affinity for my own gender. Which is not something I've felt the need to hide, but at the same time it is not something I feel the need to reveal to just anyone. But the Warehouse allows for freedom and its common knowledge behind those doors and within the privacy of my home.

"No, I shall set her free as requested." I say while slipping off the bridle, before moving to undo the saddle; leaving both lying on the ground. "That and I'm confident that my house will not accommodate a horse."

At first the long-legged mare simply looks at me, before eventually turning to run full gallop towards the hills; at the sun seemingly ascending behind them. I enjoy the moment, the brightening light that will chase away gloom that has lingered here for long enough.

"You know Wells this will make for one hell of a story." Doyle says. "I can already hear the words I will use. It will be a mystery of course; a phantom dog vanquished by the aloof yet stead-fast, unorthodox, brilliant Sherlock Holmes and his astute partner Dr. Watson. It will be a test of wits with a foreboding playing field where a sinister game is afoot."

I chuckle, "You my friend will not be the first Warehouse agent to fictionalize their adventures, so I'm sure the Regents won't raise any objections. You know I suddenly find it rather innocuous on how many authors the Warehouse has employed over the years now that I've thought about it."

"I suppose they elect to fish from the literary pond because we have such fertile imaginations." Doyle says. "That we are always prepared for an adventure; whether it be one we experience in the flesh or one that only transpires in our minds."

"Possibly, but my mind keeps coming back to money." I say. "They play on the fact that we have very little and our unending desire we put forth in our creative ventures that will never produce a daily wage."

Doyle laughs at my words as intended and we begin walking back down the fine graveled path for a third time this night, or rather early morning as it is now. A silence lingers between us as the sounds of his footfalls begin to match mine.

"Be that as it might, I do commend them for their always equal practices of employing the same number of women as they have men." Doyle says. "Because a resourceful, efficient and open mind is always needed and the body that it's housed in is in my opinion irrelevant."

I smile at his progressive notion which is a breath of fresh air in this oppressive age that has women dress-bound, gagged and presented to males as prizes to be bought. I personally abhor the most basic garment for such things that was invented by a man; corsets.

"Quite right." I say. "But at the risk of sounding lady-like, I'm eager to press on, so when we board the train I might get out of these past worn clothes that I have been wearing for one dance too many."

"That's not lady-like, Wells." Doyle says. "That's called having good hygiene and besides I also desire a change of clothes too."

I laugh as we approach our carriage and I see that Wolcott and our guest are ensconced in the back already; the carriage door left ajar.

"That simple task took you two long enough." Wolcott shouts.

"We left you with company, Wolly." I say. "And it's not like the carriage was about to spontaneously combust, in which case sitting in said carriage sulking would not be sound judgment."

The strange woman tries and fails to stifle a chuckle. I catch myself smiling at her.

"You are rousingly humorous for someone who hasn't slept in a day." Wolcott says. "And I suspect continued exposure to Mr. Doyle has only succeeded in furthering your wit at my expense."

"Great minds tease alike, Wolcott." Doyle says as he pulls the door open all the way and moves to step into the carriage. "So shove over and make room. Wells is going to have to drive all the way now, because of your battle wound with that hot and feisty poker."

I smile as I climb atop the bench for the driver and gather up the reins. I knew that Doyle hadn't a care for driving; he is rather the pampered type in my opinion, so getting to drive all the way back to the railway station will be fun for me. But as I release the brake and snap the reins my mind automatically latches back unto the woman in our custody; she is dressed so strangely and is clearly not from this country. Also she saved me but I will still question her motives when we return to the Warehouse. I have never seen a woman handle a broadsword in that fashion and after hearing her voice I know she is American.

What I cannot fathom as of yet is why she handed herself over so freely and why she looks at me like she knows me. In an effort to free my thoughts I snap the reins once more and urge the horses along a bit faster. Although that will not make our trip any shorter since it took almost a day to travel here, and pushing the horses too hard will only slow us down in the long run. Still I will pace the horses at this speed until we reach the railway station and then our journey will reach full circle once we set foot back in London.

"Wells, I say are you trying to bounce us out back here!" Doyle shouts and I chuckle under my breath as the early morning sun warms my face. "Or are you just trying to see if you can make the wheels come off?"

After several hours on the road with minimal water breaks and rests for the horses we finally reached the railway station and the carriage was loaded in cargo for transport. Doyle and Wolcott retired to the cabin on the train that they share and I to mine, only this time with a companion. Still bound in the shackles I watch the woman as she silently goes towards the lavatory in our cabin, without even asking me, perhaps to freshen up and I wouldn't request permission for that either.

Then again the woman has said nothing in many hours to my knowledge, but I would occasionally catch her looking at me while we oversaw the carriage being boarded on the train. I have so many questions that I hardly know where to start, however this is no place for an interrogation. But pointed conversation is useful in gaining information and this is as good a time as any to try and engage the stranger.

"I suppose it's rather pointless for me to remind you that there is nowhere for you to escape to, should the idea suddenly become very appealing?" I say loudly while removing my soiled fingerless gloves and place them into my overcoats right front pocket. "And I must inform you wouldn't be able to free yourself from those cuffs at any rate should you manage to getaway."

Doyle bound the woman in the unpick able shackles that all field agents carry these days that were designed by Caturanga himself, and once engaged the cuffs can only be un-locked by the creator himself. They were modified under the same properties that Mary Celeste rigging rope behaves in. So anyone who should find themselves restrained by the cuffs will quickly learn that the more you struggle the tighter they become. I refuse to carry such an item, even though they represent yet another example of Caturanga's rule bending equipment.

I prefer to knockout those who mean me harm or Tesla them into compliance. However it should be noted that this stranger, this woman in my cabin figured out the shackles quickly or perhaps she knew of them like the other things? She did say she is a Warehouse agent from the future, even though the idea alone is ludicrous. Time travel is a physical impossibility and I've studied the suggestion many times for my book.

"I have no place to run to so you don't have to worry." The woman says while exiting the lavatory and then closing the door behind her.

I monitor the stranger closely until she's seated on the bench across from me. She seems no worse for wear and her wildly curly hair frames her face thusly.

"It takes quite a lot for me to even approach worry." I say as I sit down on the bench opposite the woman.

I watch the woman's green eyes wander all over my person; mind you not in an inappropriate manner, but in a way that suggests how one would behave with someone they haven't seen in a while.

"I would've never pictured you with curly hair." The woman says with a smile.

"You speak as if you know me, but can assure you that I do not know you." I say. "But it would be rude of me to at least not thank you for saving me. So thank you."

The woman smiles and looks down at her bound wrists. She has done nothing but comply with me and my fellow agents, but she has refused to say anything much. Not that her actions haven't screamed that of a person trained in fighting skills, and there is no doubt in my mind that she is also well informed as to what an artifact is.

"You called me Helena." I blurt out.

"That's your name." The woman says as she tries not to move too much against her restraints.

"That it is, and I find it unusual that you know my name and yet I do not know yours."

"Myka."

The woman answers and her eyes seek out mine. A beautiful name for a very beautiful woman. That thought very nearly dances itself out of my mind and onto the very tip of my tongue. But alas I will not say such a thing out loud and certainly not under these circumstances.

"I wish I could say it's a pleasure, but it might seem disingenuous to you given the current climate." I say as I study the person before me. "And I would greatly prefer it if you would be so kind as to address me as Agent Wells."

"Of course." The woman says simply.

I swear I would have to be completely deaf to miss the sadness that colored those two words. I've wounded her. So I shake my head as if to clear away that small thought and the feeling it abruptly evoked in me. I turn away slightly from the woman and her piercing green eyes.

"You should sleep." I say while removing my overcoat and lay it beside me.

I carefully undo my pocket watch from its clip and gather it to place it into one of my vest's pockets for safekeeping.

"Kind of hard to sleep with these cuffs on."

I smile as I look across the way at her, "True, but you would still benefit from lying down if not for anything other reason than to rest your eyes."

The woman looks at me thoughtfully for moment and then rises from her seated position on the bench, "If you remove them my promise still stands that I won't run."

"I can't. And I'm afraid those cuffs can only be removed by the man who created them and clearly I am not that man."

The woman smirks and I do not miss the action of her eyes sweeping over my body; it is not at all surprising to me the small thrill of enjoyment that her attention causes.

"In that case will you at least help me unzip my coat to make things a bit more comfortable for me?"

I rise off the bench and step closer to the woman, and despite having not bathed recently she smells sweet to me; like wild flowers after a cleansing rain. She is almost three inches taller than me, even with the added height of her unusual footwear.

"Gently lift your hands please." I say and she silently complies. "I will help undo your coat."

The sound of the zipper sliding down seems to overpower the sounds of a moving train upon tracks of steel. As I pull down on the tab her bare neck is revealed, which gives way to a brightly colored undershirt and I can faintly make out the outline of quite prominent breasts. I swallow roughly because normally I would be flirting quite openly at this point with such a beautiful woman, but this time there is nothing going on that even resembles those sensual encounters. I look up at her eyes to find she has been inspecting me, but what I see being directed back at me is adoration and something that I cannot place.

"Thank you...H...I mean, Agent Wells." The woman says lowly before turning away from me.

I watch after her as she moves back to the bench and then lie down. I want to tell her goodnight even though it is not night. I suddenly want to tell her that she can call me H.G. at least but I don't. Instead I collect my small bag and step into the small lavatory in my quarters to change clothes, and then I too will lie down on the bench across from her to rest my eyes for a spell. Hours later when the train pulls into the London station somewhat abruptly had I not been gripping the edge of the bench I was laying on I would've ended up on the floor.

When I open my eyes the woman called Myka is sitting up and simply looking out the window of our quarters. I want to ask her what she sees with those eyes of her's, but that question will remain unasked. Then I notice that her leather coat is once more zipped up, which begs the question as to why she asked for my assistance to a task that she could manage herself. The knock to the door a few minutes later turns out to be Wolcott and Doyle, both looking much less fatigued than they did several hours ago.

"The carriage has been unloaded from the cargo." Wolcott says as he steps into the room.

I acknowledge him with a nod as I pull on my overcoat, and then properly reaffix my pocket watch on my clean vest.

"Madam, if you would be so kind." Wolcott says as he offers his hand to the woman-Myka.

The woman smiles and stands up, "Thank you, and it won't make nearly as much of a scene if you give me a coat; it will hide the cuffs."

Wolcott removes his overcoat and drapes it on the woman's shoulders; like any proper gentleman would, and indeed it hides the restraints and her unusual clothing.

"This way if you please." Doyle prompts with a smile.

The four of us disembark and the carriage with fresh horses is waiting to transport us and the artifacts to Warehouse Twelve. We board the carriage and Myka sits next to me; her hands still bound, but clasped together on her lap. As the driver urges the horses the cabin jostles and her leg brushes mine, I close my eyes at the sensation that floods my body at the faint touch. I shift away from her and move the privacy curtain aside in the cabin, so that I might watch the familiar streets of London and its inhabitants preparing to retire for the night. I wonder if my inner clock will reset to daylight hours now that this mission is almost behind me.

The entrance to endless wonder that is Warehouse Twelve is underground. I've found that being beneath the very streets of London is a thrill in itself. Having gotten off the carriage I wait behind the taller woman that Wolcott is tending to while Doyle hits the appropriate tumblers to open the locks on the entryway. As I stand behind Doyle I cannot help but notice his change of clothes. Instead of his brown suit that was beginning to show its several days of wear, he now sports a fresh navy blue suit and is also wearing pristine white spats over his brogues. So very prim for a man and unlike other men he does not smell like an unwashed armpit.

"Damn this contraption." Doyle says. "I swear if my death is to be Warehouse related, then it will be because of this damned door. Wells, you're a bright woman so why don't you engineer something a sight cleverer and more efficient?"

My idea of efficient would only vex him; a retinal scan, since every human eye is different. The blood vessel patterns alone would provide an error rate of only one in every one million. And I think it's a sound assumption to say there will never be a million Warehouse agents working at one time.

I smile and step around Wolcott and our guest, "I would happily offer to do such a thing, but I'm afraid you'll have to get Caturanga to agree. And good luck with that because you know the motto: 'If it's not broken then why fix it?"

I distinctly hear the words 'stubborn old mule' uttered by Doyle under his breath, as he engages the proper tumblers in the correct order so the Warehouse wouldn't be inclined to think we are intruders. Finally the lock releases and the doors open like gears moving within a clock, and Doyle and I step through the threshold with Wolcott and the woman directly behind us. Every time I set foot inside my second home I am welcomed by the smell of apples. I was told by Caturanga on my very first day how rare that was; how the Warehouse recognizes certain people and I'm apparently a favorite, but I have absolutely no clue as to why that is.

As always the vastness of the space should awe even the most jaded of agents. I am still not quite so far gone that I no longer appreciate this grand wonderment; despite my having worked here for four years now. The path to Caturanga's office is a clear one, because if you stray to the left or the right one will find themselves neck deep in artifacts that date back to many hundreds of years, yet all the objects on the shelves are very alive. I would call them dormant. My attention though is redirected to a familiar figure growing ever closer to the four of us.

"Another successful mission Agent Wells, Wolcott and Doyle." Caturanga says pleasantly as approaches; his voice echoing faintly. "The Regents will be pleased."

Caturanga stops though when he sees the woman in Wolcott's custody, "And we have a guest?"

I look to Doyle since he is the senior officer between the three of us. But I did make the final call on our guest without consulting my partners.

"We encountered a phantom entity and this woman intervened." Doyle says. "She saved us all and she knows us by name."

"So you've brought me...three curiosities?" Caturanga says with a smile.

"If you would call her that Sir, but actually three artifacts now, one of which she brought with her." I say. "And the three of us thought it best to bring her here for varying reasons."

I observe Caturanga assess the woman's strange appearance, until he passes by Doyle and I. So we turn and look on as Caturanga walks right up to the woman.

"Welcome to Warehouse Twelve my name is Caturanga." He says. "We will not harm you, but some answers are required for it to remain civil as we are not enemies."

Myka looks directly at me for a second before she speaks, "I understand and just so you know I'm not here to hurt anyone either."

"Very good." Caturanga says. "And you are obviously American by the sound of your accent. Also your attire is quite strange but that is something to address later. Wolcott please escort our guest to my office, I will see to the restraints later."

My partner complies and walks Myka towards Caturanga's office; her eyes linger on me for a moment and then she looks away.

"Wells, will you be so kind as to accompany me to my office too?" Caturanga says. "And Doyle will you see to the artifacts collected?"

"Yes, Sir." Doyle says as he turns to take his leave and reopens the main door of the Warehouse that he favors so much.

"The Regents will have to be notified, but not until I at least know a bit more about this stranger." Caturanga says. "Have you spoken to her, Ms. Wells?"

"Yes, she told me that her name is Myka."

"Such a lovely name." Caturanga says. "It means 'He or she in this instance, who resembles God'."

Doyle returns, only he is carrying the sword that the woman used to defend herself and save us while she was at it.

"Wells, I believe you can explain this better than I can." Doyle says as he offers the sword to me, and I grasp the long hilt in my hand. "I'm off to move that bloody heavy soul-sucking mirror again and the burning book." He adds and Caturanga chuckles.

"So the woman; Myka, had this on her when you encountered the apparition?" Caturanga says and I look at him incredulously. "Forgive me as I don't know what else to call it. Since it was apparently real enough and perhaps intent on causing you grievous injury had she not distracted it."

"The sword is an artifact." I say. "She said that it is Excalibur."

He nods and holds out both of his hands, so I place the rather weighty sword in Caturanga's grasp.

"One has to be rather fit to use a weapon such as this quite effectively as I witnessed." I say. "Clearly she has knowledge and is trained, capable. But more importantly Sir, I feel that it should be noted that she knows us all by name."

"You don't say? And Ms. Wells I have no reason disagree with your assessment of her." Caturanga says as he turns the sword over in his grasp; always mindful of its sharp edges. "And this fine weapon can remain here for the meantime." He adds while placing the weapon down on a purple cloth lined rack just from his office.

All manner of artifacts wait near Caturanga's office until they can be placed properly within the Warehouse.

"Shall we?" Caturanga says as he offers me his arm and I take it with a smile as always. "And as for our guest; she is a puzzle that I will do everything in my power to solve."

Walking into his office we disengage our linked arms and Myka looks up from her restraints at us. Two days of travel show on the woman to some degree, along with the journey she underwent alone. But as I meet her gaze I see that those enchanting green eyes of her's remain bright, questioning and without even the slightest hint of fear. I wonder why this woman who said she is from the future looks to me as though I hold all the answers, when it is I that have so many questions yet to be addressed.

* * *

**Soundtrack:** **"Old Tyme Religon" by Hugo, "Echo" &amp; "Warning" by Incubus**

**Parting Words:****Myka will explain herself in due time and then we'll see what happens. Also this is now officially a 'Bering &amp; Wells' thing, because I know that's what you peeps want and it's not beneath me to give you what you want.**


	6. Chapter VI: The Shape Of Things To Come

**VI. The Shape Of Things To Come**

* * *

A simmering excitement nullified every other emotion in my mind once I closed the doors to Caturanga's office. Seeing this strange person sitting in a lone chair in the middle of the room, still bound and muted. But at my arrival everything came alive and the display was plainly visible on her face. Regardless, I will opt to remain silent for now because I'm simply keen on observing. All the while I'm fully aware of Wolcott gradually migrating from standing sentry behind the stranger to being by my side. Caturanga's calm grace seems throw the woman off balance and her once irrepressibly sedate demeanor rapidly begins to shift with each minute that passes.

"As I've told you already I'm an Agent of Warehouse Thirteen, why would I lie?" The woman named Myka says. "I used Agent Wells time machine that she has yet to build to travel back to this year." She continues while chancing a glance at me and at the sight of it combined with her words I cannot remain silent any longer.

"Physical time travel is an impossibility." I say. "Not that I'm questioning what you perceive as the truth, but transference of person's consciousness is the only fathomable pursuit in such a lofty and dangerous undertaking."

"Listen to me, please." Myka says. "I know this sounds crazy but look at where you work. I wouldn't believe me either if I hadn't already seen and lived in a world full of endless wonder."

A silence engulfs the room but it is abruptly disrupted by a firm knock and then Agent Doyle enters, "The artifacts are awaiting their placement within the Warehouse, Sir."

"Very good." Caturanga says. "Now why don't you sit in on this with Agent Wells, Wolcott and I?"

Doyle closes the door to the office and moves towards the apothecary chest just behind Caturanga's desk and leans against it; feigning what I perceive as indifference. Wolcott and I stand side by side in front of one of the many glass doored shelves that holds all manner of texts across the ages pertaining to the Warehouse's long standing legacy. I feel a sudden heat on the back of my right hand, so I turn slightly and snuff out the small candle's burning wick between my fingertips. Turning back around I catch Myka looking at me yet again.

"The only tangible proof I can offer you is what I know about Helena...I mean Agent Wells." Myka says. "She's constructed a grappler and has secret compartments in her home, one in particular that's activated by a key which can be found on the second drawer on the right, in an added compartment underneath the bottom of her desk drawer."

I feel my mouth involuntarily unhinge from its closed position. Those are innovations I've only begun to test and implement. The grappler is almost ready for a field run, and I've only just finished that hidden quirk in my desk but a few months ago.

"What else do you know about Agent Wells?" Caturanga asks as I move away from my station next to Wolcott to take up residence beside my teacher.

The woman sits calmly in her restraints that Caturanga has yet to remove, and once more she looks at me as she begins to speak.

"Cavorite; it's not just something she added to her books as a fantasy element. It's real and it works and she increased its conductive properties by running electricity through it." Myka says. "And then there's The Imperceptor Vest."

"How do you know these things?" I say heatedly while moving closer to the stranger, but Caturanga grasps and then tugs on my arm gently to prevent me from moving any closer to her.

How can she know all my secrets? And better yet I do not wish her to broadcast all my innovations to the parties within this room, never mind that some of them are merely flights of fancy at the moment. For instance my time machine, which is no more than schematics upon paper that I drew out when I was contributing my part to the story that bears the same title.

"It's just the truth. I don't know what else you want to hear." Myka says to both Caturanga and I. "Could somebody please take these cuffs off me?"

"In due time, you have my word." Caturanga says. "Now may I ask what you would prefer to be addressed as?"

The woman shifts her chair uncomfortably, "My name is Myka O. Bering and I'm a United States Secret Service Agent working at Warehouse Thirteen."

"Alright that is your official title, thank you for that. But if you don't mind may I call you, Ms. Bering?" Caturanga says. "And could you tell me exactly how did you locate Ms. Wells and the other agents in this room that accompanied her on their recent mission?"

Myka closes her eyes and I cross my arms over my chest and watch as she worries her chapped bottom lip. Then Myka opens her eyes and the sheer luminosity of her green eyes is quite beautiful.

"Sure you can call me that. And I know all those things because I familiarized myself with her file...Agent Wells." Myka says not looking at me for once. "And while we're on the subject my choice on the year was because it was the only available date to coincide with the portal being open in Wales."

Caturanga pauses and I know why because of the mention of the portal. I have only learned of its existence recently and only because Caturanga is in the process of designing a lock for it. Which I would imagine once the Regents meet this time traveler the construction of said lock will be hastened. I wouldn't have thought an emergency portal that only opens to the Warehouse when triggered could be used for time travel, but evidently this stranger has proven its use for that application in my eyes.

"Thank you." Caturanga says in his usual polite tone. "And what artifacts accomplished this feat if you don't mind educating us?"

Ms. Bering only pauses for a second; briefly biting her lower lip again and then she looks directly at Caturanga, "The Tesla coil powers the whole device. Which consists of Agent Wells time machine combined with the telescope from Marquis de Laplace, the pocket watch from Karl Schwarzchild and the Sun Dial Theodosius of Bithynia."

To me it feels as if the room has shrunk in on itself and then expanded back to its normal size. And I don't think I'm alone in surmising that it was as if the Warehouse had taken a deep breath, held it, and then let go. I stand by Caturanga's side and blatantly study the woman in front of me yet again, only now she doesn't deign to look at me.

"Thank you Ms. Bering." Caturanga says. "And now perhaps you will tell me exactly why you've been combining artifacts?"

"I haven't...not really." Myka says. "We had a major catastrophe at Warehouse Thirteen and the alchemist Paracelsus was freed from the bronze sector and he combined the artifacts to go back in time and appoint himself permanent caretaker."

"I see and who was responsible for this breach?" Caturanga says.

"It doesn't matter." Myka says. "We fixed it, my team and I and clearly none of you would be here if we hadn't stopped him. Because in that other reality he was the sole caretaker for over five hundred years by killing all of The Regents in his own time before they sentenced him to be bronzed."

"Five hundred years you say and how was that possible?" Caturanga says and I make myself pull out the chair beside my mentor and then sit down.

"He made himself immortal by using the Philosopher's Stone." Myka says glancing at me briefly before looking away again.

I have never been more stunned in my life, even after being a Warehouse agent for four years. Also I know unequivocally that this woman is still being furtive because to me Ms. Bering has become a vessel of secrets.

"I appreciate your honesty in answering my questions." Caturanga says. "And I only have one more: Why are you here Ms. Bering?"

I should like to know the answer to that myself. My eyes seek out hers and she looks right at me. It's only for a moment; no more than three and a half breaths at most, but the look no matter how fleeting makes my heart beat faster in my chest. Those green eyes of her's seem so impossibly dark now.

"Yes that is the real question." Doyle says which instantly reminds me that I'd forgotten he was even in the room. "Why come here to this time?"

"Ms. Bering?" Caturanga prompts.

Myka looks away from me at the sound of Caturanga's voice, "I'm here to help someone. That is if it's okay with the Regents, because I know that you've had to have at least contacted them by now."

That is the last shred of proof enough for me that she is indeed from the future. But to what purpose would this woman trap herself in this time, because in this very moment I see no plausible way to send her back to her own time. And furthermore hasn't she already proven her worth when she helped Doyle, Wolcott and I?

"Wolcott will you remain here with Ms. Bering?" Caturanga says.

"Yes Sir, of course." Wolcott says.

"Agent Wells, Doyle will you step outside please?" Caturanga says.

I nod and walking out of that room with Doyle and Caturanga; both of them are uncharacteristically quiet. I know that there is more questioning ahead for Ms. Bering. The Regents will want undeniable proof and they have ways to extract such things from her by any means necessary.

"Agent Wells I want you to go home, rest up, spend some time with your daughter and I will have your next mission thereafter." Caturanga says. "And it's always good to see you Mr. Doyle." He smiles at us both but it's not quite like his usual. "I shall take my leave now...things have to be attended to."

My mentor and friend walks away briskly and I can safely say that I have never witnessed my teacher so anxious before. But then again a time traveler from the future with unknown intentions is cause for alarm in many levels; time continuum's can be disrupted which can alter a great many things that have yet to come to pass. Doyle and I continue on from Caturanga's office, but he stops momentarily to collect his hat off the hilt of Excalibur where he no doubt placed it on his hurried way to the office. I wouldn't conceive of using an artifact as a hat stand.

"What?" Doyle says. "My hat is not an artifact and I highly doubt that if it were that it and the sword could do much damage together on the account that my hat has no hands to hold it with."

I laugh and we begin walking again, "You sir are quite funny."

And in this moment I appreciate the levity a bit more than I normally would be inclined to.

"It works wonders on the ladies, Wells." Doyle says and I laugh again. "Perhaps you should employ it also."

"I assure you I have my own brand of charm that ensnares interested person's quite admirably."

Doyle laughs and we pause at the entrance to the Warehouse, "It was a pleasure working with you Wells." He says offering his hand. "I do hope to share another mission in your company before I retire."

"Thank you Mr. Doyle." I say as I take his hand and shake it. "I too wouldn't mind another adventure; it's been good fun to see someone else have some sport with Wolly."

Doyle smiles as he releases my hand, "Wolcott is a good chap and I do like him. But enough with the formalities please call me Arthur already."

I chuckle, "Righty ho then, you may call me Helena if I can call you Artie."

Doyle laughs while he places his hat upon his head, "Arthur will do...H.G."

Once more I laugh as Doyle and I exit the Warehouse and then the chilly London air fills my lungs with each breath. We quietly part ways as we emerge from the secreted passageway that leads to the underground entrance of the Warehouse. I head in the direction of my home. Not many people are out in this neighborhood at this hour which is ideal; aside from the timely constable patrols that I have memorized so that I may avoid their attention. The cobblestones sound underfoot and I count my steps as a means to unwind while I walk home. But I know one thought that will never stray from my mind anytime soon and it has everything to do with a woman named Myka.

* * *

**Soundtrack: ****"People Are Strange" by Echo and the Bunnymen, "The Nameless One" &amp; "Pearl Hart" by Volbeat**

**Parting Words:****As we all know WH13 had continuity issues at times (gotta love the writers) that being said I've based everything on the HG timeline of season 2. But to picture how HG looks/behaves (if my descriptions haven't cut the mustard) consult the WH12 flashback during 'Stand' or 'Endless' and you'll be on the same page as I am. Now for Myka it's the outfit from 'Age Before Beauty' when she is fencing with 'Eat Shield Stabby' in front of that castle in Wales, which is the location I referenced too. **


	7. Chapter VII: One And The Same

**VII. One And The Same**

* * *

Life between investigating curiosities is a different type of fulfillment. I love being home with my daughter, but sharing a residence with my egotistical brother is not at all pleasant. In hindsight I almost regret presenting my very first story idea to him, because he of course took to it with great aplomb. I had no idea we would be successful in our joint pursuit. But I did know how Charles would behave in the light cast upon him; knowing I would have to remain the power behind the throne if you will, and all the while knowing it would only serve as fuel to his innate arrogant nature.

Therefore it is always hard to leave my daughter when duty calls, but I am always more than happy most days to not be around my brother any longer than necessary which is a sad actuality. Charles and I have an arrangement of sorts since I have no interest in marrying and neither does he. So we decided to share a home because it is more suitable and proper in appearances for this day and age for the both of us alike. And here I am hiding with my daughter in my bedroom watching over her as she sleeps, because even getting her to take an afternoon nap is a challenge most days. So it is with great reluctance that I stealthily move off my bed, which was the only place where I could manage to get her to give up the ghost.

With my feet solidly on the floor I lean back over the bed and gently move some of her dark hair behind her ear. Satisfied that she is sound asleep I leave the bedroom as quietly as possible. Moving down the hallway I pass by Charles' door, but I already know he isn't in there at the moment since he all but announced that he was leaving and wouldn't return until late evening before lunch was even over. Charles and I have had a tenuous relationship since I started excelling and surpassing him during studies with our governess. So for very nearly sixteen years now we are no more than antagonistic allies; even though it was only through me that he achieved success, but then again one could argue that we both must stand in one another's shadow to be seen.

I descend down the carpeted steps on the staircase that that leads to the upstairs. I forgoed a dress for this evening since I saw no need for it. Instead I opted for what I would normally wear at the Warehouse and that quite literally suits me just fine. I let my right hand glide along the smooth surface of the mahogany bannister with each downward step. All along the walls to my left are old family photos in oval carved wood frames; many generations of Wells used as decorations upon bottle-green and floral printed wallcoverings.

After dismissing the cook and the maid for the evening I decide to take tea and biscuits in the parlor. I intend on falling victim to studying the long standing chess match that has been playing out on the board before me for the last week. I always choose the dark; I rather fancy myself as more of a dark horse anyway. A few thought out moves later I make headway against myself; unfortunately white is closing in on black, but I'm optimistic for an upheaval.

Most visitors to my parlor marvel at my pedestal game table with its solid brass playing surface; proudly held aloft by a fine chiseled mahogany base and top that lays perfectly plum to the checkered surface. The chessman pieces though are a source of enjoyment for me in a personal way, because I made them along with the table's surface. Brass for the white figures while dark brushed silver represents black figures. The construction of the pieces and the checkered surface took a fair amount of time and means in regards to materials, but the real rub was the horses head's to indicate the knight's on both sides; so many permutations I went through until I arrived at what I desired.

A few black pawns are sacrificed in the name of running after the white queen and without any real knowing I glance away from the match to my window to see that it's growing dark outside, which arrives quicker this time of year with the winter solstice encroaching. So I abandon the game and trek back upstairs to check on my probably not sleeping anymore beauty. After a light dinner I prepared for Christina and I; once more it was a mild struggle to get her to bed for the night but I managed.

Now as I light a few candles about my parlor just after half past seven I hear a firm knock resound at the front door and it can only mean one thing-a curiosity. Swiftly I abandon my lighting duties and proceed to answer my visitor. It is always Wolly at my door in almost every instance, and sometimes in his excitement and when its daylight he doesn't bother with knocking at all. With a smile in place I open the door.

"Good evening Ms. Wells." Caturanga says with a smile. "Sooner has come rather than later."

As I invite my guest indoors I see my brother making his way past Wolcott and the carriage awaiting just off the sidewalk. Charles doesn't acknowledge Wolly; only continues making his way up the steps before pausing at the landing, just one step between us. His own dark eyes lock onto mine.

"I assume you're leaving in a while, Helena?"

"Yes and I..." But I'm silenced by my brother stepping up on the remaining step and waving off my words.

"I will look after my niece; you needn't ever worry about that." Charles says.

"Thank you."

Charles gives me a small smile and a nod as he moves past me silently and our guest who has watched our exchange, while waiting patiently in the foyer of my home. I close the front door and turn to see Caturanga regarding my brother as he ascends the staircase towards the bedrooms upstairs.

"I suppose I shouldn't need to formally say why I am here." Caturanga says. "However, the obvious reason aside I will say that I am also here in another capacity; to discuss Ms. Bering with you."

"If you'll accompany me into the parlor." I say. "Because I'm afraid I've been ensconced there for the majority of the evening and I'm quite comfy."

Caturanga chuckles and follows behind me. As per usual he immediately inspects my chess table; I made him a chessman set too not unlike mine, and I will always remember with great fondness how moved he was over my gift.

"I see you've employed the Sicilian Dragon Defense." Caturanga says. "In favor of the King's Gambit for the white, and you have kept your white Queen closely guarded."

I smile as I pour myself and my guest a fresh cup of tea. I turn from the sideboard and offer him a cup which he accepts with a smile.

"And I see I have taught you how to brew the perfect cup of tea after all." Caturanga says before taking one long sip. "May I?" He asks indicating one of the matching tufted round chairs that I purchased to compliment my chess table; they do frame it ever so nicely.

"Please." I say while sitting down in the opposite chair with my own cup of tea in hand.

A few moments pass in silence as I watch Caturanga almost catalog every move I have made and the next logical ones on the board between us as he continues to sip his tea.

"I trust you are rested and ready for your next assignment Agent Wells." Caturanga says. "The details for tonight's mission are in the file in the waiting carriage; you are always a quick study."

"Thank you." I say. "And yes, I am always ready for the next adventure."

In the silence between us that is if you dismiss the sound of a crackling fireplace and more than a few ticking clocks, I hear a small creak just off in the foyer on one of the polished floorboards I deliberately loosened; closer to the walls. I chose to do that to a degree to announce possible intruders, but that person lingering out there means absolutely no harm.

"The dog entity in your report followed Ms. Bering from the future." Caturanga says. "Which is quite unusual, almost unheard of, but then again everything about her is not of this world."

"Yes, she is clearly not from this time, but what am I to do with that bit of information?" I say and then I hear another faint creak and I notice Caturanga smirk over the brim of his tea cup. "And before you ask Sir, I do not see a possible means for her to be sent back to her own time."

"I do not think that detail matters to her, Ms. Wells." Caturanga replies while using his free hand to move one of my white knight's forward on the board to capture one of my few remaining black pawns.

"What do you mean by that, Sir?"

Caturanga rises from the chair and moves across the room to place his empty cup on the tea tray and then returns to his chair before speaking.

"The Regents elected to use a truth-related artifact on Ms. Bering."

"I'm sorry but what exactly was done to Ms. Bering?"

Sudden images; not at all pleasant ones overrun my thoughts. I have not personally witnessed any form of torture, but I already know I would never condone its usage; it would take an unsettled mind to do such a thing to another human being.

"I assure you it was harmless and Ms. Bering was already familiar with the artifact." Caturanga says while moving one of my white bishops across the board in what looks like a rather aggressive strategy to me. "And furthermore I saw firsthand the lengths," He pauses rather uncharacteristically and meets my gaze. "Ms. Bering has sacrificed quite a lot to come back to this time Ms. Wells, so much so the Regents and I will overlook her usage of artifacts."

"If I may, what artifact did you use on Agent Bering?" I say trying my best to sound inquisitive and not nearly as protective as I suddenly feel towards this person who is still a stranger.

"Undoubtless you are familiar with the legend of the round table?" Caturanga says and I nod in the affirmative. "The artifact that inspired the story is housed in the Warehouse and agents have used it for over a millennia to record their defining moments, but the table can also show a person's memories. So the Regents and I thought it prudent to use it to see into Agent Bering's past or rather future, and she is in fact an agent of Warehouse Thirteen. We saw what came to pass in her time, but I will tell you no more for I feel that the rest is between Agent Bering and yourself."

"I don't understand."

"Ms. Wells for now you have a curiosity to attend to, but when you've completed that task Ms. Bering will be waiting for you." Caturanga says. "The Regents and I see no harm in her actions; only good. So we would like for you to take a few days leave but it will be solely your decision on whether you would like to speak to her at the Warehouse, or if you're comfortable your home can be arranged if that setting is something you see as fitting." As I start to address these revelations by Caturanga, he abruptly rises from his chair. "In the meantime Agent Wells, Wolcott is outside waiting and I shall leave you two to it. Also checkmate, white queen's bishop takes rook."

I look down from his face that is adorned with a warm smile back to the chessboard.

"Your black King is trapped." Caturanga says. "But you still won Wells against yourself; I merely worked with the opportunities your moves afforded me."

Looking at the board I smile, because I imagine the day where I actually best him at chess does not exist on any calendar.

"Even playing against myself you still somehow managed to have the light overtake the dark." I say while rising out of my chair to place my empty cup on the tea tray resting on the sideboard a stone's throw away.

"Merely two sides of the same coin Ms. Wells and one cannot exist without the other." Caturanga says while following me; I stop and turn to face him. "If I may quote an author I've come to admire: 'One of the darkest evils of our world is surely the unteachable wildness of the Good'."

I feel my eyes gloss over with moisture, "An author you admire?"

"Very much so." Caturanga says warmly. "Her chess playing strategies do need work, but overall she is an impressive human being with so much to offer. And I never want to see the day when such a bright light can be dimmed by a cruel twist of fate."

I feel a single tear warm my cheek and for once I haven't a single word to say. Caturanga reaches over and places his hand upon my shoulder.

"Wolcott can stand to wait a few minutes longer, so I shall go out to him; keep him company while you collect yourself." Caturanga says squeezing my shoulder lightly before stepping away. "Do take care tonight and as always good luck Agent Wells."

I watch my teacher and the person I admire greatly in return walk out of my parlor and then I hear the front door open and close. I finally place my tea cup on the tray and wipe my cheeks off with both of hands while inhaling deeply to calm myself. Another mission with Wolly. The thought of it brings a smile to my face and no matter the arcane hours I've been keeping as of late; I rather feel rejuvenated by it all. Quickly I move through the parlor towards the foyer to retrieve my overcoat, and pulling it on I remove my tesla from the confines of the discrete holder I fashioned inside my coat to conceal it. The charge is low so therefore it will have to be recharged in the carriage while I consult the file on the mission ahead for tonight.

* * *

**Soundtrack:****"One Thing" by Finger Eleven &amp; "Cape Of Our Hero" by Volbeat**

**Parting Words:****Yes I know no Myka in person and I did it on purpose. But here is a friendly reminder: This is a Warehouse Twelve adventure/HG story, so some patience please and remember that you did sign up for a mystery.**


	8. Chapter VIII: Grotesque Philistine

**VIII. Grotesque Philistine**

* * *

I have heard stories about how artifacts are created and that even some do not merit the need for retrieval, but there are those artifacts that intend harm to the next soul. The most interesting facet for me was the knowledge that artifacts are born daily like every form of life on this planet. I learned this from my teacher Caturanga and this evening he informed me of the birth of a new artifact that was forged by a doctor; not the first by any means, but it is among the few where a painless death is the downside.

There is a scalpel that holds this power was created on July 9th of this year 1893 when a Dr. Daniel Williams preformed the very first open heart surgery without anesthesia. Therefore each incision from the scalpel the patient does not feel the cuts and these same cuts can never be closed; will not respond to any stitch. So every person cut by the scalpel will bleed out and nothing can stop it, but on a dead body the effect is reversed.

So this evening Wolcott and I journey to the part of the Queen's realm called 'darkest London'. Closing the file on my lap I look out the carriage's portal to see that we are passing through the slum known as the Devil's Acre near Westminster Abbey and the irony of the name does not escape me for one moment; Charles Dickens is to blame for its ill moniker. To my knowledge once not so long ago it was a very desirable place to live, with gardens and lovely courtyards, but over the passage of time everything in the area fell into the clutches of poverty and has remained as such despite some recent attempts to cleanse the area of its diseased stigma.

Rather incidentally I notice that the carriage ride is free of any conversation, even though I have long since concluded my readings of the file on tonight's mission. I turn away from the scenery to look at my partner, but Wolcott's attention seems to be firmly fixated on our passing surroundings. So turning my focus away from him I lean forward and remove my tesla from the charging box inside the carriage. I replace it inside my coats compartment and look out the portal once more to see that we have turned onto Old Nichol where the file indicated that tonight's entanglement would be found.

Our driver an apprentice agent named McShane, who is the younger brother of Agent McShane, steers the carriage into a small passage just across the street from the building that we are about to enter. He is suitably armed with a tesla for his protection as well as our own should we need him. Stepping out of the carriage I'm met by Wolly who looks troubled to say the least.

"I'm ready if you are, H.G." Wolcott says.

I nod and start walking through the intermittent darkness; noting that the night would be more unsettling if it were cloudy, but fortuitously it is a cloudless night and the whole of London is sleeping under a cosmic quilt of stars. The old building that lies before us will no doubt be torn down in the coming months, due to the new measure to make all buildings in this area 'tolerably comfortable.' The slum clearance that began just over two years ago will eventually make its way here; most of the people have been moved already, so it's only a matter of time.

Wolcott and I walk across the street undetected, which is no real stretch because there isn't much lighting in this area of London. We stop abruptly at the new sight in front of us, because of the buildings location from the street we apparently must cross a ramshackle bridge of sorts; it spans over a ditch that looks to be no more than roughly a meter and a half across.

"All that's missing from this setting is an ominously boisterous lightning storm." Wolcott says with a frown which makes me smile.

"I have to say another gothic artifact retrieval setting was not what I was craving either." I say while we descend the rickety wooden steps. "In less than a week no less."

I feel one step almost give way under my weight; the rotting wood protesting loudly. But before I elect to make one more step I reach back for Wolcott's arm and pull him closer to me and our combined momentum propels us over the last two steps and we land with a jolt on bare earth; thankfully I am still upright and standing on both of my feet.

"Thank you H.G." Wolcott says and for a moment I wonder if he has hurt his still freshly injured hand.

"Not a problem." I say and there is small smile on his face for the first time tonight.

"Ladies first." Wolcott says.

It's then I notice the doorway to the building. It has no handle to speak of and any of the sorts has long since fallen off; instead a simple rusted chain hangs through the hole. Opening the door, which sticks slightly on its rusty hinges finally gives way with a violent tug. I cross the threshold first and Wolcott and I move through the darkened space and towards what looks to be a cellaresque dwelling.

According to the file this space once housed workers that made and assembled furniture components; it also housed a few bricklayer. I must say it was no great surprise to me that we would find this man in some forgotten building away from prying eyes. I imagine him to resemble the Ripper from a few years ago. This man is also preying on the unfortunates; not prostitutes mind you, but other forms of the homeless in a fashion.

This place is rather like an abandoned warehouse of sorts, and isn't really an inspired choice for this mad scientist to conduct his experiments. The space hums from the primitive application of electricity being carried over the substandard wiring, which in time will cause a fire especially if they become overloaded by the current. But unlike the spirited house earlier this week, this space is free from any remains of unuse. This man has cleared the space so that he may come and go as he sees fit and the space he chose is quite impressive, even in its unassuming state if one where to cast judgment solely from what they saw on the outside.

"The woman from the future?" Wolcott says lowly.

"What of her?"

"I may have heard from a source that she has been freed from the Regents custody." Wolcott replies in hushed tones. "And released to yours...in a manner of sorts."

I stop and turn around to face him. I already know this information that he's passing along in regards to Myka is his poor attempt at transparency for a confirmation; prodding meddling if you will.

"For a person who claims to not be fond of Mr. Doyle he appears to spend a good deal of his time gossiping with him." I say. "And don't deny it because I know he told you most of this information, the rest you gleaned from your not quite so covert eavesdropping on Caturanga and I earlier."

Wolcott's mouth is agape for a moment but then resignation flashes over his features and he immediately knows there is no point in disputing the facts at hand.

"Fine yes I was skulking about in your foyer just off your parlor. I thought I was discrete but your infernal floorboards kept conspiring against me." Wolcott says. "And yes Doyle told me he was present during most of her second interrogation with the Regents, but he wasn't present while they used the artifact on her."

I exhale deeply, "Wolly, now is not the time for this."

"Sorry, back to business then." Wolcott says while drawing out his Tesla from his inner coat pocket.

I turn around and retune my thoughts back to the task at hand while my eyes continue to assess the surroundings. The walls are completely done up in rough but smoothed stone; built to withstand the toils of time, and the pale grey stones remind me of old bones. At each corner of the room is a pronounced column that is accented by a grotesque face of a gargoyle fitted into the stone. It's that image that reminds me of my recent adventure, and strangely my thoughts drift to Doyle and I wonder what he is up to at this moment.

"H.G. there is light coming from under the door ahead." Wolcott says. "And if that room is anything like this room; we will have no element of surprise once we open the door."

"We don't need the element of surprise." I say while removing my Tesla from its place in the hidden compartment of my overcoat.

Wolcott smirks and carefully places his wrapped and still healing left hand on the door's latch and twists it slowly, while drawing his own tesla in his good, dominate right hand. The door creaks slightly even under his extreme care and I want to push Wolcott aside quickly so that I might react in kind to an assault by whatever is waiting in the other room. But the only things lying in wait are coffins; I count at least seven, some freshly unearthed, some having clearly been dug up for more than a few days.

The smell of fresh soil and death still clings to the one closest to me; the dirt is a rich black from having been exhumed from grounds that have been turned many times over by the worms of the earth. Carefully we pass by expensive caskets and inexpensive pine boxes alike are strewn about in a haphazard example of disorganization. Even in the poor overhead lighting that flickers to its own irregular rhythm, I see six bodies covered in blood that have been thrown back into their caskets.

The smell is almost unbearable, but Wolcott and I hurriedly press on through the ranks of this man's monstrosity; walking in the very path his footsteps have cleared. Following the marginally brighter light up ahead we emerge in an open room that is quite expansive, but with a very low ceiling; Wolly's tall frame very nearly touches it. My eyes focus on one thing first; a figure clad in a dirty white coat lit by a low hanging lamp overhead, and then I see what that figure is hunched over.

A nude body is lying prone upon a self-made examination table in the center of the room; being meticulously cut. Many rows of forgotten and ill-formed pews line the walls; more remnants of this building former purpose and tenants. Quietly, I watch the man make incisions along small, gaunt, narrow shoulders and then finishing just below the boy's collarbone directly above where his formerly beating heart resides.

"They bleed out bout as fast as I bring em' back." The man says. "Thought I would try a small body this time round."

Wolcott and I trade glances before moving further into the room, but we keep the door behind us, because this room has only one door and it's the one we came through. The man continues to go about his work; only stopping occasionally to wipe the scalpel on the soiled coat he is wearing.

"For everythin' to work I gotta cut em' on the arms and legs so they can move; waking the dead limbs." The man says with a chuckle. "Then I gotta stab em' in the old ticker, get that goin' again."

Wolly and I are as close as we need to be to this man and I address him, "Do you imagine yourself to be Victor Frankenstein ripped from the pages, Dr. Williams?"

"Even I now who that is." The man says. "But I don't and it don't matter nobody's feelin' any pain right now."

"That is because that's a corpse and it cannot feel pain." I say while raising my Tesla to aim it directly at the man's back, and then I notice a trail of bloody footprints at my feet.

The man turns slightly away from the young boy's corpse and smiles rather brazenly as he stabs the corpse's chest where its heart was and quickly withdraws the scalpel. Then my eyes endeavor to witness in a matter of seconds the body lying upon that table twitch, jerk and then right itself on the table.

"Bloody hell!" Wolcott exclaims.

The boy's eyelids pull open but the eyes themselves have long since seen their last sight; the lens will remain a milky white color since they are dead and no artifact augmented scalpel will alter that fact.

"You are not Dr. Williams." I say.

"What you on about woman?" The man says while turning fully away from the corpse of the young boy; the body is weeping blood from each cut.

I smirk and fight against the urge to move closer to this Neanderthal.

"Firstly, Dr. Williams is American and by the sound of your accent it is rather obvious that you hail from this country, but more specifically Blackpool." I say. "But the most glaring piece of evidence is that the real Dr. Williams is of African descent, which you clearly are not."

The man laughs and wipes the scalpel on his coat again; the thick coating of dried blood has made it stiff, and the scalpel makes a faint scraping sound against the fabric.

"I stayed in this damned place after everyone else left." The man says. "Got another job at the medical school at Queen Mary, after nobody had a need for a bricklayer. You see I wanted to be a doctor but I didn't have all the smarts I needed, or the money, but I was always smart enough to get what I want. So I stole this little knife cause I could while this fancy doctor was lecturin' at that medical school." He says while looking at the scalpel in his hand. "Nobody like them rich people notice someone cleaning the floors or their tools. Didn't know a right simple sharp knife could do what it does."

"I'm afraid you're going to have to give us that scalpel, Mr. Dexter." Wolcott says.

"Yea, that's not gonna happen." The man says; his grip tightening on the instrument in his hand. "Don't be callin' me that. Silas is what I like."

The body of the young boy collapses back on the wooden table; the wood squeaks under the once again at the dead weight upon it.

"You cannot keep digging up bodies to experiment on." I say while continuing to aim my Tesla at the man before me; his once black trousers stained with mud up to his knees.

Mr. Dexter laughs loudly and I can see his yellowed teeth and a few on the bottom in front are missing, "I'll be doing whatever I like woman, ain't hurtin' nobody, just havin' a laugh."

I feel myself flush with anger but I will not give this man the satisfaction of knowing that.

"If you do not stop referring me as 'woman' I shall be forced to do something you may not like." I say calmly while activating my Tesla and the sound of its electric current sizzles.

"Come on then, have at it, I know how to treat a lady." The man says and then offers me a sickening smile. "Or go on then and shoot me with your fancy gun...woman."

Wolcott moves closer to me with his Tesla aimed at Mr. Dexter's chest, "I would ask you to be a bit more respectful to my partner, but I suspect that would be asking a great deal from you."

The man simply scoffs and shifts his tall, slim frame; the stringy unkempt mess of his hair falls over his forehead. I smirk at my Wollys attempt to salvage my slighted honor.

"Mr. Dexter you assume a great deal if you think you know anything in regards to how I prefer to be treated." I say. "And I can tell you with all certainty that you offer nothing that I require at this time."

"Silas, I told you a'ready." The man says while moving closer to me and suddenly I smell him over the stench of death that I imagine is ingrained in the very walls now.

"Give us the scalpel Silas." Wolcott says; his Tesla now crackling with an active current. "I won't ask again."

Mr. Dexter twists the scalpel in his right hand methodically. I know he will not go without a scuffle, but getting nicked by that scalpel could be fatal, and I for one will not take that chance. Just as I'm about to depress the trigger on my Tesla the man stabs himself in the throat with the scalpel. He grunts and then gurgles, but then a peaceful expression consumes his face. I know that he is experiencing something close to a euphoric high that chloroform ether provides now. I watch as his liquid life force runs down his neck and stains his shirt with his own blood; it's flowing like a current. I notice his pale green eyes for the first time as his legs give way and his body drops to the floor.

"That's one way to end it." Wolcott says while putting away his Tesla.

"A ghastly one at that." I say while walking over to Mr. Dexter's body and Wolly follows.

Seeing that the man is well and truly dead I put my Tesla away. The scalpel is still being held tightly in his bloody right hand. I reach into my pocket and pull out my purple cloth; bending down I use the cloth to pry open his fingers, then I carefully grab the scalpel while using the cloth as a barrier. Standing up from the body I wrap the scalpel tightly in the purple cloth, before placing it inside my inner overcoats pocket for safekeeping.

"I suppose if Mr. Doyle had been with us he would've liken this scene to that of a funeral gone awry."

"Frankly H.G. I would've hoped that one of those corpses would've made him squeal a bit." Wolcott says. "Now that I won't deny I could've greatly enjoyed."

I laugh even in the macabre setting before us, "Wolly, I do believe you mostly likely would have been disappointed."

"Probably." Wolcott says. "But one can dream."

"You dream of Doyle?" I say while barely trying to conceal my amusement.

"You know what I meant H.G." Wolcott says. "But to eliminate any misgivings; dream of Doyle, certainly not."

This time I do laugh and Wolly nudges me playfully as we walk out of the room that has seen more than its share of horrors this night and many nights before I imagine. Arrangements will have to be made to put the bodies back into their rightful places, and that should be quite easily accomplished since this threat was attended to before the papers received wind of it.

Wolcott and I close the main entrance door behind us; the chain doorknob clanks as Wolly lets go of it, and we both emerge outside in the crisp, cutting night air. It's not nearly eleven yet according to my pocket watch and for once I am glad that I will be back home before the clock has turned over to another day. I tuck my timepiece back inside its resting place in my vest's pocket.

"That man was as mad as the fabled March Hare what's his name wrote about." Wolcott says while we navigate the shoddy bridge again. "And I hope the Warehouse's caretaker extraordinaire knows how to dispose of a..." I laugh at Wolcott's pause for me to fill in the blank.

"Reanimated corpse." I say with a smirk as my feet land on solid earth. "I think that Mr. Frederic is a brilliant caretaker, although I must admit that when he just pops up behind me out of nowhere, that it has taken a fair amount of practice on my part to not to startle every time."

"Precisely." Wolcott says as he too steps off the rotting bridge.

The Frederic's are rather Warehouse royalty and for a moment I imagine that one of Mr. Frederic's daughters will become caretaker once Warehouse Twelve has reached the end of its tenure here; his youngest daughter Irene has already wed but she chose to keep her families surname, but I suppose the obvious choice is her older sister.

As Wolcott and I walk down the poorly paved street a silence lingers between us; it's a silence that has always felt pleasant when our conversations lull. I have always enjoyed Wolly's company and I was skeptical when we were first paired together, because to me he seemed to be nervous and unsure of himself. Also I was curious as to how a man four years my junior would behave towards a woman of my reputation.

"H.G. I scarcely know how to phrase this," Wolcott says as we walk leisurely side by side down the street. "But are you ready to speak to the woman from the future?"

"Yes, because I'm afraid curiosity has gotten the better of me."

"A hallmark of good agent." Wolcott says with a chuckle.

Another silence lingers between my partner and I before he speaks again.

"I'm to understand that you have been given time off to talk with Ms. Bering, and in your absence I'm to be paired with Doyle...alone...with absolutely no buffer whatsoever." Wolcott says and I chuckle at his obvious lack of enthusiasm in regards to that statement of fact. "H.G. I know he's retiring from being an agent at the end of the year and I hope it's not a personal goal of his to go out in style as they say, and certainly not with me in the near vicinity."

"Oh, Wolly...everything will be fine." I say with a smile. "And it's not like I shall be gone off to the moon or some other unreachable place."

"I bet you would run off to the moon in that tube contraption of yours that you've spoken about a few times now." Wolcott says.

"Someone would have to elect to go first." I say. "To test the craft, because like Dr. Frankenstein I have no wish to experiment on myself and I'm certain I wouldn't even do such a thing as a last resort."

"Caution in my mind is the safest and most sound reasoning." Wolcott says. "And by that right I sincerely hope you to apply that simple bit of logic when you speak with Ms. Bering."

Normally I'm not one to confide in people in general, but with Wolcott it has always felt different; he sees me as an equal, and our partnership is based on mutual respect.

"Wolly, I feel...or rather more appropriately it to seems to me that Agent Bering has been nothing but noble in her intentions. And Caturanga has confirmed that and the Regents are all in agreement on the subject of her intentions."

"No room for an argument then." Wolcott says. "I just worry about you H.G. You've come to mean a great deal to me and I would miss you terribly if something awful were to befall you."

"Wolly, you really are the sweetest man I have ever met." I say. "And your worry is noted." I hardly know what else to say to placate his emotions. I know he doesn't want to hear about my attraction to Ms. Bering no matter how unseemly even I find it at times, but yet it remains and I will address it at a more prudent time.

"You fancy her don't you?" Wolcott says with that same light tone in his voice; like all those other times when he has saw fit to bait me about my few romantic conquests.

But I don't begrudge my partner's teasing after all I am not a woman with loose morals, nor am I a gal-sneaker, which is what a man is referred to when he is solely seductive in nature. But in the same instance I see no sound reasoning in ignoring my most basic of needs.

"Yes." I say and stop walking; Wolly responds in kind. "She has chosen to be alone in this time for some unknown greater good. How can I or you for that matter not in the very least admire a sacrifice of that magnitude?"

Wolcott drops his head and nods, "When you phrase it like that, then yes I do admire her. And I would be an ungrateful meater not to acknowledge her courage. Which makes me wonder if she will be missed in her own time or perhaps she chose to escape from it?"

"Both of those theories could very well be correct." I say. "Caturanga simply informed me that Ms. Bering was here...for me as you know."

Confessing that to my most trusted friend is exceedingly easy, and not solely because he heard those words the same as I. But because I do not fear his opinion, whether it be for or against the concept of it all. Wolcott tries to repress a smile; I have known him long enough to know that is precisely what he is trying and failing to accomplish.

"H.G...I'm afraid I've run out of words." Wolcott says as the smile he was suppressing will no longer be denied. "If Ms. Bering is truly here to save you from unforeseen evil then I will welcome her help again with no qualms."

I smile at my partner, but then I catch movement the next alley down from where we left the carriage. And much to my dismay I see what is commonly referred to as a bang-tell shuffle out of an alleyway; Crock Lane to be exact, while pulling her tattered grey dress down and then shortly thereafter a man refastening his trousers emerges from that same dark alley. It requires no imagination whatsoever to conjure what those walls were just privy to.

"H.G. are you alright?" Wolcott asks but I only notice his voice after registering his faint touch upon my arm.

"I'm fine Wolly." I say. "I think its past time for my repose and you also look like you could benefit from a sound session with your bed."

Wolcott chuckles, "Shall take that recommendation seriously?"

"You had better if you wish to remain standing." I say. "Because I assure you when you're a Warehouse agent with some years on you and when the opportunity for a quiet moment presents itself, you would be a fool not to capitalize on such a promising occurrence."

"Very well then shall we be off." Wolcott says tipping the brim of his hat at me, which makes me smile, and we walk towards the waiting carriage together.

After the doors shut and the horses begin to pull us all along I lean back into the seat and close my eyes. I can see her; Agent Bering coming through the fog again, and that large black hound snarling at her. She looked so fearless; like the worst damage that could be inflicted upon her had already passed, and thusly this mere dog couldn't touch her.

"H.G. this is my stop." Wolcott says loudly and I open my eyes; the daydream fades away.

"Sorry I nodded off." I say while straightening my posture.

"It's quite alright." Wolcott says with a smile while turning the latch to open the carriage door. "I shall see you in a few days and check in on you that is if I'm not maimed again while on a mission with Doyle."

"Goodnight Wolly." I say with a chuckle as he steps out of the carriage.

"You too H.G." He says before shutting the door.

McShane urges the horses and the carriage moves to deliver me back home. Turning to look out the portal I watch after my partner of a year and one half now, and I must say I was also hesitant when I was assigned him after my probationary period as an agent passed and I was promoted to full agent status. But he is an excellent fit for me and I liked him after the first few words we exchanged upon meeting one another. Gradually his tall frame fades in the growing distance between us until he is gone from my sight. I will drop off the scalpel at the Warehouse after I've had a few hours of sleep and a hug from my daughter.

* * *

**Soundtrack:****"Helena" by Misfits, "Knights Of Cydonia" by Muse &amp; "How Can You Be Sure" by Radiohead**

**Parting Words:** **This story has been so much fun and a challenge for me, because I don't plan everything out in full anal-riffic detail. The main event (a.k.a 'Wells &amp; Bering') that you've all been waiting for kicks into high gear with the next installment.**


	9. Chapter IX: The Pursuit Of Truth

**IX. The Pursuit Of Truth**

* * *

Inviting Ms. Bering into my home to talk seemed like the most natural action. After I of course asked my rather indifferent brother Charles to take Christina with him to visit our family in Kent with the promise that I would join them there in a few day's time. Ms. Bering walked into my home accompanied by Caturanga, both of which I invited into my parlor for tea; Ms. Bering declined the offer of tea. As the evening progressed Caturanga and I sipped our tea, while I discretely watched Ms. Bering simply chose to stand near the fireplace; endlessly lacing her fingers together while focusing intently on the logs burning and crackling within the hearth.

"As always you managed a perfectly stellar cup of tea Agent Wells." Caturanga says while placing his empty cup back on the tray resting on the sideboard. "If you'll pardon me I shall take my leave; someone will be back later to collect Ms. Bering. I will see myself out."

I suspect my teacher has become attuned to the subject of my observation. I imagine the both of us; Ms. Bering and I are eager to speak to one another privately, even though Caturanga and the Regent know all things because they have seen her secrets.

"Have a good evening, sir." I say after Caturanga's retreating form, before I turn my attention back to my guest for this evening.

The Regents obviously had her usual clothing laundered; I imagine that they rationalized that she would be more at ease in this time in her own clothes. She looks refreshed and even more beautiful in her now clean form-fitting clothing that proudly displays her feminine figure. Briefly I wonder if she finds my attire pleasing, even though I recall her eyes appeared to linger fondly at my choice of vest when I greeted her and Caturanga at the door. I suppose from that observation alone I apparently dressed in a similar manner in the future. Though as of now I resolve to halt in these purely aesthetic thoughts, because I invited her here to know her baser motivations since they remain hidden to me. Furthermore, I endeavor to know them before this night is through because I know that they involve me to a lengthy extent.

"I assumed my home would be suitable." I say while walking further into my parlor; closer to Ms. Bering. "Since I imagine you haven't a proper doss even if you were allowed to stay somewhere outside of the Warehouse."

"Doss?"

"Lodging." I supply at her curious glance.

"Oh, I forgot about that Victorian term." Myka says. "But thank you for your temporary hospitality, Agent Wells."

Everything feels far too formal and impersonal so I decide to amend a previous request that I made of Ms. Bering the last time we spoke.

"You may call me H.G." I say while I move to sit on the settee which is just off to the side of the fireplace. "That is if I may address you as Myka?"

"Sure, that's what you always called me." Myka replies as she turns away from the fireplace. "And most of the time I called you H.G., but sometimes I called you by your first name."

To me that simple statement says so much about my future self; that I would be on a first name basis with this woman, but apparently in the future I am not her intended as she so plainly desires. Leaving that far-reaching, stretch of the imagination thought behind, I focus on Myka while she moves about my study as if she's been here before and I'm going to assume that she has. So much nervous energy is radiating off her that I want to ask her to sit down, but I will not instruct her to do anything as she is my guest and not some unwanted trespasser. Occasionally, I catch her stealing glances at me as she fidgets about the room; her elevated heels thumping against the hardwood floors.

"I am relieved to see that you are no longer wearing those shackles." I say while offering her a smile.

Myka gives me a reserved smile in return, "They had to take them off before they used the artifact on me. Thankfully after they saw what they needed to see they never put them back on."

I know that last statement she meant in jest but I cannot bring myself to even smirk about such a thing. A change of subject is in order for many reasons; paramount among them is that I'm most eager to get started, so that we may get things properly sorted between us.

"If I'm to believe we are friends at the very least in the future won't you tell me something about yourself?"

"Like what?"

I smirk, "What possible name did your parents bestow on you that starts with the letter 'O'?"

Myka laughs and the genuineness of it makes me chuckle.

"Ophelia, my parents owned a bookstore and they passed their love of books onto me along with naming me after one of Shakespeare's characters."

I smile and in this moment it would be impossible for me not to. Something we have in common; a love of literature. I'm pleased to note such a precious thing has not become extinct in the future; what a sad horizon that would be to lay eyes upon. I wonder if my books have ever held her attention at one time or another.

"Okay, turnabout is fair play." Myka says with a teasing quality which adds a pleasing color to her already lovely timbre. "Why did your parents name you 'George'?"

I sigh, "It's an old and terribly outdated family name. I'm not fond of it, because it's yet another masculine title thrust upon me."

Myka abruptly halts her passive marching across my parlor floor, and I as I meet her gaze I see that she's looking at me with an expression that belays a fondness and distance. For all intents and purposes she is presently here but a part of her is adrift in a memory. Then ever so gracefully a shy, reserved smile emerges.

"I don't think there's anything about you that's not incredibly feminine, H.G." Myka says. "I wouldn't mistake you for a man."

I feel myself blush but also burst with a small amount of joy, because speaking with her is becoming so effortless.

"Thank you Myka that is quite flattering of you to say."

"Just an observation." Myka says with a smile, but it quickly fades and then disappears altogether.

Myka turns on heel once more and walks back to the fireplace, and I find myself marveling over how the flames are painting her in only the most flattering of tones. However, I note that it now feels as if a great burden has stepped into the room with us and firmly planted itself squarely on Myka's shoulders. So many emotions flicker over her troubled features in our shared silence; she's waiting for me, so I shift forward on the settee and openly gaze at her. Then as if she has felt my eyes upon her, she turns to look at me and I see how very lost she truly is in this moment.

"Myka why are you here?" I say gently. "Why have you risked so much to travel back in time?"

Those eyes of her's reflect back a wisdom beyond the body that doesn't look to be over the age of thirty. Those same eyes dart away from mine for a moment as she takes a deep breath, before looking back at me quite intensely.

"To save you." Myka says succiently. "I convinced myself that...you know this will be hard to hear H.G. But what I'm about to tell you hasn't happened and I'm here to make sure it doesn't."

So there it is a small portion anyway. I wasn't aware of my impending damsel status. Perhaps it would be wise to not be vocally dismissive to her yet, because she in point of fact has already saved me once already. But be that as it may, to my knowledge now it is also a fact that the phantom hound was there for her, and Wolcott, Doyle and I were merely bystanders. I offer her a smile at the expectant and yet guarded expression adorning her face.

"The plot thickens." I say and my act of levity falls short of the mark, upon observing Agent Bering's immediate forlorn expression. "Apologies, I meant nothing by that. You see I'm still absorbing the notion that you are from the future."

"It's alright." Myka says. "May I sit?"

I find that I'm also pleased that in the future also having a sense of manners still exists.

"Please do."

Myka pulls out one of the round tufted chairs at my chess table and seats herself. I notice her appraise the workmanship of my table and the chessmen set, but she doesn't say anything, and I fear I have insulted her into silence and that was not my intent.

"H.G. I know that the more I keep telling you about my mission the more insane it will continue to sound to you." Myka says. "But you need to understand that I'm not trying to hurt or confuse you. I know Caturanga has to have told you by now about the Regents inquisition of me." She bites her lower lip and squeezes her eyes shut briefly. "I mean it with every fiber of my being when I say I'm here to help you."

I think the less I say from now on the better, because this ordeal appears to be hurting her a great deal more than me currently.

"Continue please."

Myka nods and turns in her seat slightly while crossing her legs over one another, which makes me take notice of how phenomenally long they are. I will myself not to blush and in the same breath I school my body to tamper its innate responses to persons it's quite accustomed to being attracted to.

"H.G., I think it will be better if I just...July 14, 1899 is the date your cousin's home was or will be invaded by men who are simply going to rob the place...and your daughter was or will be...murdered in the process." Myka says and the air leaves my lungs. "You finished building your time machine and tried to save Christina but you couldn't. After that you located the thieves who...you tortu...you killed them H.G." I feel a tear slide down my cheek which I quickly wipe away. "And then you chose to be bronzed; locked in darkness with your pain and it took away what was left of the best parts of you." Myka's downcast gaze rights itself to meet mine and I hope that there are no tears present in my eyes. "What I've seen now in this time is the person you were always meant to be. I don't want to see you broken anymore."

So this is what Caturanga meant when he said some parts were just meant for me. I doubt if I will be able to hold all my tears at bay for much longer, because this is too much to accept all at once. Especially the idea of my daughter being taken from me in such a frightful manner; she would be not quite two months past her eighth birthday.

"The Black Shuck was at the Borley Rectory because of you wasn't it?" I say with certainty, while desperately trying to keep my wits about me in the face of being told of my daughter's potential murder and my actions of vengeance afterwards. "It followed you to this time, didn't it?"

"Yes." Myka says lowly, even though I can tell she is confused over the abrupt change of topic.

"Are...or rather were you dying?" I say; trying to see the whole picture and not only the horrific one of my daughter's demise.

Myka swallows almost harshly, "I was when I left 2032."

"I beg your pardon?"

My voice sounds almost foreign to my ears, because all this information is beginning to strain credulity in my overtaxed state.

Myka subtly clears her throat, "I left my dying fifty year old body in 2032 and used your time machine; without the other artifacts needed for real time travel, so I could transfer my consciousness to my body in 2010. From that time I quietly collected the other artifacts and here I am. I'm so sorry H.G. but you must believe me."

Speech has failed me and I imagine my silence will become off-putting any moment now, but Myka merely pulls on the cuff of her coat, closes her eyes tightly and exhales deeply. I watch closely as her eyelids flutter open and those lovely green eyes look so very sad to me and I see that she is older than she appears.

"I took a vacation by myself to England about six months before I used your time machine." Myka says. "I went out to Basildon in Essex to enjoy the English countryside. I stayed at a cute little bed and breakfast in Cray's Hill. Then one night while I was sitting out on the porch I heard a howl and naturally my curiosity and protective instincts were screaming for me to investigate so I did. I had walked maybe a half a mile; it had already howled twice since I left the porch. Then it was if I suddenly went deaf and that was when I saw it." Myka holds her index finger under each of her eyes for a moment to stop the tears I've been watching gather in her eyes. "I'd read the legends and even if I hadn't put much stock in them the proof was right in front of me, and I saw I had only one chance left to do things right. I had nothing left to lose."

I feel so hollow; my heart is breaking for this woman before me.

"What of your family?" I say finally having enough air in my lungs to have a voice once more.

"My parents passed many years before I came here and my sister Tracy," Myka says but then pauses and wipes carefully under her eyes. "I was dying remember so I said good-bye already. The caretaker of Warehouse Fourteen; Claudia Donovan staged a funeral, and then with her consent and the Regents I left."

"What were you dying of if I may inquire?"

Breathing is becoming easier now but my heart is still hurting.

"It doesn't matter what exactly now." Myka says and a tear from each lovely green eye runs down her cheeks. "I was struck by a sudden illness in my early thirties and I thought I had it beat, but honesty I think some form of it came back when you..." Myka's words trail off and her bottom lip trembles faintly. "I just felt like someone had reached inside me and stole something vital; the last thing that was keeping me..."

Myka's words cease again and I have the distinct feeling that she was going to say a good deal more revealing and of a personal, intimate nature. Regardless, I hardly know what to feel now, because so many battles are now clashing in my head and heart.

"Oh God." I say brokenly, but in the same breath I feel myself become angry at all this seemingly impossible misfortune. "Did nothing ever work in your favor?"

"Not really." Myka says while wiping the tears off her cheeks. "We had that in common when we met the first time. I felt I had found someone that could understand me and I understood you...for the most part and I always believed in you to a fault some would say."

A knock at my front door resounds loudly; I know our time has expired for now. I stand up off the settee and move to answer the door, and waiting out in the night is Wolcott and Doyle. I don't smile because I simply do not have it in me in the face of what is replaying over and over in my thoughts.

"Good to see you again H.G." Doyle says.

"You too Arthur, although I wish it were under different circumstances." I say. "The both of you do come in please."

Wolcott smiles wanly at me before clearing his throat, "We've come to collect Agent Bering for the evening, H.G."

"I know. Myka's in the parlor waiting for you."

Wolcott and Doyle move past me in the foyer and I close the door and follow behind them silently. I step around them as they linger at the threshold to my study.

"Ms. Bering it's time to go." Doyle says and Myka rises from the chair and silently walks towards them.

As Myka moves closer she stops by me and I find myself craning my neck slightly to meet those haunted green eyes of her's, "I'll see you tomorrow Agent Wells and please don't worry too much over what I told you."

"Please call me Helena." I say through the tears that are rapidly accumulating in my eyes and the tightness in my throat and against the acute ache in my chest.

Myka smiles and allows my partner Wolly to escort her to the front door; he opens it for her and she steps out in the night, and then to carriage that is surely waiting outside with Wolly close beside her.

"Is she being treated fairly?" I say to Doyle who still lingers at the threshold to my study.

"To my knowledge yes." Doyle says. "You have seen with your own eyes that they have cleaned her attire. As for anything else I cannot say; mine and Wolcott's instructions are to deliver her back to the Regents Chatelet which is near the House Of Commons. I don't know precisely where, just that someone will be waiting to take custody of her when we arrive."

"Thank you Arthur."

"Not a bother H.G." Doyle says with a smile. "I had better be shoving off, take care of yourself."

And with that I watch Doyle leave; he closes the front door gently behind him. So many emotions are threatening to take over, but instead I resolve myself to the simple task of extinguishing the candles in my foyer and then in the parlor one by one. With but a small candle in hand to light my way I trek upstairs, while willing my now rampant thoughts to spare me so that sleep might find me as soon as my head rests upon my pillow. I was right about Myka's sacrifice being grand but I had no idea at its very heart that my best interests, or rather my sanity, is what she's trying to save.

* * *

**Soundtrack: ****"Different Lives" by Hugo, "Silent Lucidity" by Queensryche &amp; "Don't Let The Sun Go Down On Me" by Roger Daltry **

**Parting Words:** **This is the first multi-chap tale I've written in a single POV. I normally don't do that because I feel like it makes the story one dimensional, limited, but for H.G. I was more than willing to give it a go anyway. ****F.Y.I:**** The date of Christina's death was taken right off the time machine in the S2 episode 'Where And When' &amp; the marker on her tomb in 'Reset'; have fun freeze-framing for yourself to verify.**


	10. Chapter X: The Years Between Us

**X. The Years Between Us**

* * *

"I need to see it all for myself, please?" I say desperately while trying to maintain a small measure of my usual manners.

I almost verbally apologize for this wanting that has taken ahold of the reins; wanting to know the whole story that unfolded a long time in the future from now, but oddly I am also at a stalemate in this same moment that I don't wish to see, to know. However, a whole night spent mulling over every word of Myka's continuously in my thoughts while I lay in bed; impossibly wide awake, and thusly fueled this state I am in and my desire to know more won out over rationality. I do hope my teacher forgives me for this uncharacteristic outburst. And with surprise on my part I watch as Caturanga calmly glances up from the files his meticulous eyes were scanning, and as of now I believe he has simply been waiting for this irregular display from me.

"Alright Agent Wells." Caturanga says as rises from his chair and steps out from behind his desk. "The Regents and I anticipated as much, so if you'll follow me please."

I am more than certain of the glaring truth that I arrived at; Myka withheld some information from me during her heartfelt purge. I could think of nothing else last night, and I need to see the one thing that I know I cannot bear. I must know if it's all real even though I feel in my heart that it is the truth. In the next breath a notion surfaces that Caturanga's usual attire reminds me of that of a priest that I'm following to confession. Silently I walk alongside my teacher, through and past many rows of endless wonder until a room that I had never encountered before, even during some of my explorations of the Warehouse, is seemingly without warning looming before us.

"Will Myka disrupt the time continuum?" I say even as I am taken aback at the sight.

"I cannot see the future, except for what Ms. Bering has shown me." Caturanga says. "But should the future be altered I believe it would be for the better, for what I saw couldn't possibly be any worse and I for one am thankful it hasn't come to pass."

"I suppose it doesn't matter anymore." I say. "Honestly, I would not want her to leave even if she could now."

My teacher is silent and for a moment and I consider what I've said aloud, but the words cannot be taken back and I would not wish for them to be unspoken now; if that were at all possible.

"Here we are, Agent Wells." Caturanga says as the two large doors in front of us slide open all their own with no physical urging from either of us.

I step forward and the smell of apples permeates the air as I walk further inside the secret area. The room dimly lit but I can see that is an open, almost oval-shaped space and upon looking up it seems to have no ceiling to speak of. But various designs are swirled on the grey stone walls and they trail down to the floors in vibrant shades of red and yellows that can be seen even in the low light.

"In all my years I have never known the Warehouse to have such a strong affinity for an agent." Caturanga says while I listen to his voice and footfalls on the stone flooring drawing nearer to me. "This is the strongest I have ever personally smelled the apples."

I take a deep breath and try to hold onto what remains of my already horribly frayed decorum, "Even after four years I still do not know what to make of its affection towards me."

Caturanga chuckles and I turn to look at him, "The Warehouse is an excellent judge of character my dear; try not to overanalyze the simple logic that it likes you."

I smile and then the lighting in the room becomes brighter all on its own accord. It's then that I see in the center of the room is a great stone table; it instantly reminds me of a flat circular example of the Stonehenge due to its grand ancient texture.

"Just place your hand upon the stone." Caturanga says. "Ms. Bering's memories are stored within and given the moments that lies within you should be able to access them as if they were your own."

I simply nod and walk closer to the table; my heart is beating rapidly in my chest, because for the first time in my life I'm afraid of what I'm going to see. Still I place my hand against the round stone table with strange markings and in one blink of eye a strange feeling washes over me that's almost akin to an intimate embrace. Then it begins and it quickly feels as if I'm looking through eyes that aren't my own; it is rather like watching one of those projected movies, one where some images move slowly then speed up, only to slow again. But these visions are in the color of life, not grainy impressions cast solely in shades of black, white and grey.

Myka looks exactly as she does now, but I know now that she does not look her true age; just as I did not when I am in the future with her. I see myself telling Myka about losing my daughter. Next I see Myka in a cemetery where the knowledge of how long I was encased in bronze and why is revealed, then my plan for the world's destruction. I am repeatedly shown how I hurt and manipulated Myka, but at the same time I also bear witness to so many stolen glances and lingering smiles. My hand starts to shake on the stone table's worn but rough surface and I cannot help but gasp as the images continue to bombard me.

I know my heart and I see how I fell in love with Myka even when it was only functional in sustaining my life, and not much else. Then not one but two acutely unbearable moments play out at the same time; my eyes can scarcely take it all in. The first is Myka and I along with a man and a young red-haired woman in a forest; in essence I tell Myka it's for the best to wipe me from this world. I feel like I can't breathe and then the next vision does stall my breath and it's of me pushing Myka away again on a dark drive in the middle of the night and she willingly let me but with tears in her eyes.

But it is the next event I see that makes my lungs feel as though they have completely seized up. I feel tears run down my face without my consent and I cannot bear to look any longer, so I remove my hand from the table as though it was being burnt. My eyes are equally stinging by the visions that replayed before them.

"Helena..."

Myka's gentle voice brings some peace to my now aching heart and I turn in the direction that her voice emanated from to see tears running down her cheeks as well. I know unequivocally that this moment was engineered, but I am grateful that she is here in my time of need.

"I...I was." My voice falters and I quickly will my tears to slow, so that I may speak without failing. "I was...with some woman named Giselle when...I died...in 2029." I barely manage to say through tears and against the overwhelming pain in my chest. "I died without...seeing...you again...yet I saw it through your eyes." I wipe my cheeks off on the sleeve of my overcoat. "You read my obituary on some device that looks almost like a white sheet of parchment."

"I did...it's called a tablet." Myka says and I can hear how the outright tears are changing her voice. "I thought I was going to die right then and there when I read those words. Shortly after your funeral my health took a turn and my doctors said at the most I only had three years left if I was lucky. After that prognosis I started making plans to do this." Myka smiles but it's sad, pained. "I believe that I could've gone on living with what time I had left just knowing you were in the world...even if you weren't with me."

Those last words she seemed to whisper because her voice failed to function. I need to go home, to feel some solid ground under my feet. I close my eyes tightly in an effort to get my tears to stop flowing so freely.

"Ms. Bering if you'll permit me I shall escort you both back to Agent Wells home." Caturanga says. "You may stay there tonight if it is alright with-"

"I would like for Ms. Bering to stay with me for the night." I interject whilst wiping tears off my moistened cheeks once more with the sleeve of my overcoat.

"Very well, I'll have Wolcott take you home first Ms. Wells." Caturanga says. "And I shall bring Ms. Bering."

"Thank you but no." I say while turning away from the table to face Caturanga. "That's an undue amount of fuss. Myka and I shall take a small buggy back to my home."

"As you wish Agent Wells." Caturanga concedes with a polite smile.

As I walk past my teacher he places a hand on my shoulder and I stop for a moment while the smell of apples fills the air once more. In passing it all feels surreal and Caturanga smiles at me before he walks away. Myka and I leave the Warehouse together and we take a small carriage provided to agents for the purpose of transportation to their homes. Once in the carriage I am quickly made to realize just how small it is.

Not that feeling Myka pressed so closely to me is undesirable in anyway, particurally with my emotions so raw, it's more due to the fact that a word hasn't been exchanged between us. There is so much I wish to say, but I find that I absolutely do not know where to begin with her now. Fortuitously though a pleasant recollection of sorts comes to the forefront of the chaos that is my thoughts and feelings.

"I witnessed the moment that I saved you with my grappler from some fast moving black machine." I say with a smirk because of how close I am to Myka, and I turn my head to look at her more closely and I see a small smile on those lips of her's. "While telling you how I missed the horse and buggy days."

"Yeah, that's what I call literally sweeping a girl off her feet." Myka replies and I laugh; it feels good after all the other emotions I have experienced in the last hours.

And with that new burst of excitement I realize that Myka is here to change all of those moments. The thought of that alone makes me desperate to take hold of her hand, but instead I will my hands to remain fixed upon my lap.

"You know you can touch me if you want." Myka says as if reading my thoughts. "Because I want you to."

Then I remember the vision from the woods of how I said my goodbye; saying that she was the one person who knew me best. So I reach for her hand and its warm, but there is a slight tremble present as she links our fingers together. The memories are so fresh in my mind, as are the feelings that are paired with them; they are not mine but they are beginning to become a part of me, and it is of little consequence with each breath I take that they did not originate from my head or heart.

The small carriage moves briskly along the cobblestone and I'm jostled against Myka and at this moment I couldn't be more pleased about it. A serene silence falls between us and I'm inclined to just allow myself to feel: To bask in the warmth emanating from the person beside me, the sounds of the horses' shod hooves striking the street, but more inviting is the sound of Myka's elevated breathing; mine also has increased steadily since we boarded. However, the element that is calming the tempest inside of me is the feeling of Myka's hand in mine.

The driver announces that we have arrived back at my home, and reluctantly I let go of Myka's hand. We exit the carriage and walk side by side up the steps to my home. Upon entering I am thankful that the maid allowed a few candles to burn before she left for the evening; no doubt anticipating my late evening return. I shall have to thank her tomorrow for her thoughtfulness.

"Helena, I can go back to the Regents Chatelet. I know I will have to eventually anyway, because they won't let some woman out of her own time run freely around London or the world for that matter." Myka says while I hang my overcoat. "And more importantly I thought you would want to spend the evening with Christina."

So thoughtful and utterly selfless in the face of everything; becomes my most prominent thought as I turn to Myka and offer to take her coat.

"Nonsense, you will stay here tonight." I say. "And as for my daughter she is with my brother Charles visiting family for the next few days. Also I did promise I would join them once I had tended to some pressing matters."

Myka nods her head and removes her brown leather coat. It's then that I see that in place of the bright shirt she was wearing, now she is beautifully adorned in but a simple off-white button up shirt from this era. I know that I am staring and I try to amend myself, but in the same instance Myka blushes and points to the study just off to the right.

"I'll just go wait in there."

I smile because the maid chose to leave the parlor dark and instead illuminated my study across the hall. I also smile because to me being in Myka's presence now is the calm after a tumultuous storm and I desire to touch her more and be soothed by it.

"That will be fine, shall I fetch us something from the kitchen?"

Myka smiles politely at me, "No, I'm not hungry but thank you."

I follow Myka into my study and her eyes alight on my desk on the otherside of the room that rests alongside one of the large windows that allow me a street view of this part of London. The maid apparently is all too well versed to my needs on certain evenings, for I see not only will I have to thank her that I shall also have to endeavor to be less predictable. The silence between Myka and I is not uncomfortable, but I feel as though as I might become overwhelmed again if a dialogue is not started.

"You do realize that you've altered things and that now I will not become this destructive person you came to know." I say to her back. "And I most certainly will not ask to be bronzed."

Myka does not respond right away, she only continues to move towards my desk in the study.

"You weren't really destructive...you were damaged, maybe a little broken but you weren't beyond repair." Myka says. "You know this place is very you, but your other home still looks pretty much the same a hundred and thirty-four years from now?"

I cannot help but smile and study this person before me while I sit down on the settee in my study. She is so very tall and utterly beautiful in every possible way, it's enough to make a person weep from the notion if you were to be denied the opportunity to see it with your own eyes. And I already know with no uncertainty that I will not let this second chance; as it were, go unrequited in this time because my personal limit is that I simply do not have it in me to let go of something or someone.

"Will you tell me about the first time you were here in London." I say even though I saw some of those moments but I want to hear it recounted from her. I want to heal us and I want it to begin now. "When we first met?"

Myka turns and smiles at me, "Not this house but the one you will buy next; in the future your home is maintained like say a museum. The year was 2010 and my partner Pete and I were there to apprehend the newly de-bronzed H.G. Wells. We didn't know who you really were or what to expect, and you had gambled on that fact and hid yourself among the people who were touring your home. Pete falsely accused this man; an actor, who was pretending to be your brother which was embarrassing, but it enabled us to clear the house."

"How did you know I was at my home that day?" I interject when Myka pauses to run her hand through her long curly hair. "I could've easily been elsewhere."

"True but my partner and I thought it was the best place to start, and it turned out to be right when I show the guestbook. Everyone who visits your home has to sign in and I recognized a certain name-Edward Prendick. But you still managed to slip away with the other tourists." Myka says smiling at me. "Then you came back to the house and while I was sitting at this very desk you were out in the main hallway seducing my partner, Pete."

Myka's so very clever and has read at least one of my books. I simply laugh while leaning against the settee's armrest.

"That certainly sounds like something I would do."

Myka chuckles and places her hand on my desk's smooth, polished mahogany surface, "It was a good thing I was already sitting down when my boss Artie told me that H.G. Wells was actually a woman."

"Were you disappointed when you found out?"

"No." Myka says looking directly at me. "I mean how could I be? You are..."

Her words fail but I can see the emotions on her face as plainly as words upon paper. Myka was captivated by me in a fashion from the very first suggestion, and was quite gratified that I was a woman and not some old-fashioned man with a ridiculous mustache. The realization brings a welcome smile to my face, but then I feel it slip all too quickly at what I'm about to say to her.

"I know now just how poorly I treated you in the future." I say rather timidly, breaking the temporary silence. "Therefore I will not sit here and defend my future self, but I do feel compelled to say that I am sorry for her actions. And that in my mind she is now but an uncast shadow of the person you see before you."

Myka moves slightly away from my desk and looks down at the floor, "Thank you, but you didn't need to apologize." She says, still schooling herself to not look directly at me. "I already forgave you for it all a long time ago."

So much heartache is present in those words that I feel as if I might suffocate even in open air. I want to choose my next words carefully, but in the same instance I want no room for confusion of any sort.

"How is it you came to...love me?" I say forcing myself to be dauntless. "And I know that you do, otherwise you would not be so forgiving and here in this time."

Myka's gaze finds mine once more and the courage to lay oneself bare that I see in her eyes is humbling.

"I don't know." Myka says while looking away from me for a moment. "I mean, I just know that I do and I'm not ashamed that I fell for someone who wouldn't love me back. But I do feel foolish most days; even though it wasn't something that I could just turn off."

I want to cry again but alas will not. At least not until we have cleared the air so to speak, and then I fear I will not be able to stop.

"What do you love about me?"

Myka moves away from my desk; she doesn't look at me, but still she walks towards the settee and sits down on the opposite end. I feel her weight settle a small distance away from me, and my body turns slightly towards her in response.

"Everything." Myka says with no further hesitation. "The good and the bad equally, and that underneath the amazing intelligence, bravado and wit lies the most resilient heart. Even when it was wreaked you still managed...what you were capable of with what you had left."

Heavy tears run down Myka's cheeks but she makes no effort to wipe them away or hide them from me. In this moment I feel as if my heart now belongs to her and she can have it; I will offer it freely. Also I cannot help but think what I wouldn't give to see this future, to fix this wrong between us, but then I realize that I don't need to because she's here, Christina's here and this is my home. I belong here and I want her to feel like she belongs here with me.

"I cannot believe my future self would refuse you." I say as Myka's tears slow and then she reaches up to wipe the last remnants off her cheeks.

"It's complicated Helena, you still had to hide who you are even in the future." Myka says. "And we never acknowledged what exists between us, but now you won't be in the future, that is unless you change your mind and choose to be bronzed."

"Have I not already said that I have no use for that now? I will watch over my Christina closely." I say as I move closer to Myka on the settee. Fortune favor the bold, but make no mistake my next words are not based on a whim; they feel rooted in my soul and written in stone upon my heart. "And perhaps you will stay with me and aide me in keeping her safe?"

Myka smiles and I feel the blood in my veins quicken, but her eyes also begin to moisten with fresh tears. I know I am lying a great deal on the line now, yet I have no fear for any consequences that may arise because this feels right and anything less would be positively unimaginable.

"I will of course court you properly." I say somewhat nervously in Myka's silence. "I feel as if I know you, but there is always more to learn and I very much desire to know everything you wish to share with me."

Myka remains silent and I feel as if I have stepped onto a unsteady branch that may break at any second, and I am counting on this person next to me to be the hand that will reach out, to catch me if I should fall.

"I was hoping you would say something along those lines." Myka says and I close the remaining distance between us; my knees press against her's, but I school my hands to remain off her person for now. "Because in my time I settled for my partner Pete for a while; he felt familiar and I thought that was what everyone wanted me to do. I should have never let other people tell me who I should want." She continues; her voice losing volume with each word. "But thankfully Pete and I realized we made a mistake after one year together. You know when we were just partners I hadn't realized just how self-centered, controlling and jealous he really is and to the extent that I humored him. And he wanted children but I didn't want them...with him."

Myka closes her eyes and two tears descend down her cheeks. I cannot bear this sight so I reach up and gently grasp her face in my hands; wiping away her tears with my thumbs. She inhales sharply at my touch but also leans into it.

"I just couldn't do it anymore, Helena." Myka says; her voice choked with tears, and then she opens her eyes once more. "You're all I could ever think about. I only wanted you, but the future you she wouldn't or she just couldn't...so I chose to be alone for a long time."

"Oh Myka."

I swear my heart is aching.

"I had to save you Helena, because I could this time; all the way, not just part way until the next obstacle." Myka says. "And I also hoped that I might get another chance with you in this time that you might see me differently and because I told them I wasn't coming back. I have no reason to go back. I mean why would I ever want to?"

My eyes fill with tears, "Stay then, stay here with me. I promise to never hide you away or be shamed into denying how I feel about you. Because I don't give a damn what anyone else may presume to know about my heart."

I have never once in my life put so much in harm's way before, meaning my feelings and allowing another person into my life, but knowing the breadth of Myka's devotion has made me bold. I feel that this moment is one-of-a-kind and I do not mean because she is out of time, but the uniqueness stems from a willing sacrifice; for me of all people, and clearly with no real intention of expecting a reward for such noble actions.

"Yes." Myka says and I feel so light. "My plan was always to stay Helena, even if you didn't want me in this time either."

I pull Myka to me and my eyes close as our lips meet for the very first time. So much sadness that I need to wash away; she is like a withered flower, so beautiful, but dying of thirst and I aim to be the elixir to bring forth her once stunning blooms.

"I love you." Myka says lowly once her lips leave mine. "I always have, I couldn't stop. Even as embarrassing as that is to admit and I know you've only known me for eight days, and I don't expect you to say it back now..."

I chuckle and look into her eyes as she falls silent, "I feel as if I've known you for years and in point of fact I have in another life as it were; one that wasn't very kind to the both of us alike, however to be honest I fell for you quite quickly in this time too darling." I say while her eyes call out to mine to be their anchor. "You were rather dashing brandishing that sword, also I know my heart and I saw through your memories how much you came to mean to me. After all subtlety was never my strong suit when it came to someone I fancied greatly."

"I know you previously stated that apologies from me are not required, but I need to apologize for my future self's cowardice, even though we both know it stemmed from the fear of loss." I say. "Still she is nowhere near as brave as you; thus undeserving in my mind, for you chose to give up so much to chance to save me and the other person in my life that means the world to me. I shall never let either one of you out of my sight."

Myka shifts even closer to me, until no distance remains which only serves as encouragement for me to continue.

"Which begs the question: Do you want children with me? Because I do have this precious two and a half year-old little girl who is quite a handful and I am certain she will be rather taken with you too."

A sigh of relief slips past her lips and I feel like this night could very easily lend itself to an intimate encounter, but I will not allow that as of yet. I meant what I said about courting her justly.

"Yes, I want everything with you and I will do my best to win over your daughter too." Myka replies with a chuckle as she leans in to press a gentle kiss to my lips; my eyes close on instinct, but then I feel her slowly pull away. "I've wanted to do that for many lifetimes now, Helena."

I open my eyes to look at her, "Was it worth the wait?" I say with her taste still lingering on my lips.

"Yes." Myka says and her tears all but a memory that is fading quickly from her eyes. I hope to never see her shed another tear in sadness, for I will seek to only make her happy from this moment henceforth. "I even love that some things about you are timeless and unending."

"Whatever do you mean?" I say with a smile as I let my hands slowly fall away from her face.

"That no matter what, no matter when and no matter where you are...you are everything to me." Myka says with a smile that I know mirrors my own. "And why do you always have to be so damn charming?"

I laugh and reach for her hands to hold in mine, "I'm afraid that the effort it would require on my part to not charm you would expend more energy than I'm prepared to waste. So if you do not mind I shall continue my pursuit of you, being that I see you succumbing to my charms as an inevitable happenstance." Myka's cheeks begin displaying a faint rose hue and I smile widely. "Also I shall from this moment forward exclusively direct that part of my personality towards you and you alone."

Myka laughs and the blush upon her cheeks deepens, "Don't ever change, Helena."

"I couldn't possibly." I say with a smirk before I lean in so that I may feel her lips on mine again.

I will not ask her to share my bed, so I hope that my suggestion of Christina's room for the night will not dampen the passion I taste with every brush of Myka's lips against mine. It will not be a long wait until I am ready to tell her that I love her; she is right about it being too soon for me.

* * *

**Soundtrack:**** "Follow Me" by Muse, "Prurient" by Crosses &amp; "Beautiful Girl" by Inxs**

**Parting Words:** **I do hope this version of 'Bering &amp; Wells' has been satisfying in its own right so far. And the reason my stories are so H.G.-focused is because Myka was a main character on the show. You already know her.**


	11. Chapter XI: Frontiers

**XI. Frontiers**

* * *

Recalling exactly what was on my mind when I stormed into the Warehouse yesterday and for today as well, the second day in succession is no challenge whatsoever, for one person has factored heavily in my decisions as of late. Although in my defense on this day I was summoned by the caretaker himself. I must say the sight of watching Myka being escorted back to the Regents Chatelet this morning by senior Agent Crowley; a man thankfully I've had no dealings with due to his reputation, thoroughly destroyed what I would have preferred to have been the desirable event that I had wanted to occur after a quiet breakfast with Myka.

I want more time alone with her before I have to leave for Kent this afternoon, and in all honesty I simply desired another kiss from her. Because last night after my efforts to lighten the evenings turmoil Myka wished to retire for the evening and to my surprise was pleased with my suggestion of separate sleeping arrangements. So this morning after what Myka alluded to was a restful night of sleep I had hoped we would resume where we left off the previously. Instead all I was awarded by our circumstances was the apologetic look on Myka's face as she slipped her leather coat on, having already resigned herself that she had no choice but to depart with Mr. Crowley.

So here I am at the Warehouse at a half past two in the afternoon; standing in Caturanga's office, listening to reason, rationale from one of the higher powers.

"Agent Wells surely you know that Ms. Bering cannot remain with you at your home? The Regents and I allowed you both one evening alone with no intrusions due to the unveiling of Ms. Bering's memories that upon some forethought we felt would be emotionally taxing." Mr. Frederic says. "Furthermore, since you are on personal leave I would suggest you join your family in Kent for the remainder of what has been allotted."

I make no effort to mask my distain from Mr. Frederic, for I feel that it would be fruitless, since he is quite possibly the tallest man I have ever seen. In my estimation he is at least 196 centimeters tall he would see my reaction from anywhere, unless he were not looking at me at all which is not the case. Warehouse Twelve's caretaker is a man of a dark complexion and by the looks of him I would imagine his body to be made of sheer muscle under the dark grey suit that he is wearing today. It is anyone's guess what his true age is, but the man looks to be around his late forties. His voice though is the most commanding thing about him if you are not swayed by his stature. It's dark, rich tone paints the image of a forest of redwoods in my mind, which is the only way I would describe his voice to a person.

"I intend to leave as planned to be with my family, but I also need to be certain that Ms. Bering will still be here when I return and no harm will have come to her in my absence."

Mr. Frederic smiles so fleetingly that a less observant eye would have missed it, "Ms. Bering is here to stay as you should know by now Agent Wells. The Regents and I have no reason not to welcome her into our family; she was after all one of us, and we see no restrictions in not offering her a place amongst the ranks here if she desires such."

"And what of the possible ramifications that may arise out of her being allowed to remain in this time?" I say even though I do not care but one has to sound responsible even if their inner motivations are skewed. "Not that there is much that can be done short of..."

My voice loses all volume when my thoughts voice another option, one I will not say aloud, I cannot even fathom bringing myself to say 'killing her'. Which I'm certain is an option that the Regents had or rather likely still have on the proverbial table. I would never allow that to happen since the thought alone is sin enough. Mr. Frederic's stoic posture and expression have not changed in the slightest at any of my words. Not that I expect him to since he reminds me so very much of a great human pillar, one that essentially keeps the ceiling of this world from falling upon our heads.

"Agent Wells no one can see the future from here, much less do anything about it." Mr. Frederic says. "Ms. Bering was careful in her departure, and in her time you were there where you didn't belong and was clearly determined to be...unhappy."

I cannot in good conscience dispute his simplified claim about my future self's intentions, but it is still difficult to hear even though so many parts of my current self don't resemble that which I saw and consequently had become. I look around Caturanga's office and my gaze lands on his desk; particularly on an open file that bears Myka's name.

"Yes, Agent Wells we have a file started on Ms. Bering and we will be supervising her very closely for a time until it is no longer necessary." Mr. Frederic says while walking behind Caturanga's desk and then he swiftly closes the file. "I hope you will not take this personally nor Ms. Bering. But the Regents and I think leaving you both to your own devices is unwise given the predicament of an uncertain future that we all must now face."

I feel my hands want to reform themselves into tight fists. So this is Myka's reward; a life of being monitored and what of our rekindled relationship?

"Mr. Frederic while I understand that your concerns are valid and sensible, I cannot...let her go with not even the slightest hint that we will be allowed to see one another whenever we choose."

Mr. Frederic moves around the desk and clasps his hands together in front of his expansive frame, "Agent Wells I will not keep you from Ms. Bering, you must believe that. I understand all too well her reason for coming to this time and it was for the most basic and profound issue; her love of you."

I feel my eyes begin to cloud with excess moisture. I know that I am not in charge and I am merely an agent that serves the Warehouse, but for a moment in the rush of things I actually thought Myka had paid all the penance required in her old life and in this new one she would be granted a fresh slate. I want so badly for things to be easy for her, for she deserves it and more, we both do really considering our history.

"Agent Wells I can see the mischief of your thoughts playing out all over your face." Mr. Frederic says. "And I will tell you that there is no need for you to begin plotting Ms. Bering's emancipation."

"So I'm to get on the train to Kent and pretend that nothing is amiss?"

"I expect you to do as you see fit, just as the Regents and I must for this person who just appeared in all of our lives; a woman who won't officially be born until the year 1982." Mr. Frederic says. "Now is not the time for emotions to cloud one's judgment, now is the time for one to behave rationally, even Ms. Bering understands this and as you now know she is wise beyond the years her appearance suggests."

"I am well aware of those facts, Sir." I say while meeting Mr. Frederic's dark brown eyes, yet in this light I notice an amber ring around his pupil that I hadn't in our previous encounters through the years.

"Agent Wells, would it trouble you further if I were to tell you that you dead twice in the future, on two separate timelines no less?"

Some of the fight drains out of my body at his words, which I know in no uncertain terms that they were meant to provoke me in this manner.

"What...how is that at all possible? I know that I died of very old age in the future, even though I certainly did not physically resemble my almost one hundred and sixty three years to be precise."

Mr. Frederic shifts his tall frame slightly, "The Paracelsus event Ms. Bering described was only the tip of the ice berg with what we saw once we collected all of her memories; not just the one's she allowed us to see. Magellan's astrolabe was used after Warehouse Thirteen was destroyed in an explosion, an explosion caused by a man corrupted by an artifact and also an explosion that you sacrificed yourself for in order to save Ms. Bering, her partner Agent Peter Lattimer and senior Agent Arthur Nielsen."

"You saw these things?"

"The bond I share with the Warehouse's Eldunari affords me certain powers that most caretakers have shied away from, for the age old fear that power corrupts and some it in fact does." Mr. Frederic says. "The Warehouse and I carefully extracted those subconscious memories from the timeline Ms. Bering herself most likely does not remember and she is certainly better for it, wouldn't you agree?"

Yet again more knowledge that would strain a lesser mind. Although I have an impression that Myka is all too aware of the timeline she isn't supposed to remember, but I will not mention any knowledge of it to her unless she asks me directly; even though I intend to have no secrets between us. I know any further protests will not yield a favorable result, therefore since I see no other viable options I have no choice but to accept the hand Myka and I have been dealt. For now.

"Yes Sir, and I apologize for my rash behavior earlier."

"Do not worry yourself about that, Agent Wells. I completely understand; fate it seems has an eye on you both, for even time itself cannot stand between you." Mr. Frederic says with a faint smile. "To be perfectly honest with you, I too am impressed by her and I have already made the offer to her of once more becoming an agent, only for Warehouse Twelve this time." He pauses and shakes his head. "You know I saw my youngest daughter Irene recruit Ms. Bering all those years into the future."

I cannot help but be calmed by his statement; as he intended of course, and I also smile at the obvious pride in his voice at that last statement. I look down at the floor to hide this reaction from him.

"The Warehouse is the best place for Ms. Bering really, in any capacity that she so chooses, for everyone needs a purpose." I say but my words fall to an absent audience for when I look up.

Mr. Frederic is gone, and the familiarity of this action makes me smirk. Walking out of Caturanga's office I begin to hear the faint traces of Wolly and Doyle's voices along with a female voice; all of which are mingling and carrying out from the sitting room just down the way. I walk briskly for I know that voice and even though it's only been a few hours I have missed it dearly. As I move towards the Warehouse's sitting room; where most of us agents wait while files for our missions are being prepared, I hear Doyle's voice competing for volume with Ms. Bering's and the latter tone of voice makes me smile on impulse. I move towards Myka where she is seated in an old wingback chair that I usually favor when I'm in here.

Myka's eyes find mine and I smile; Doyle nods his greeting to me as does Wolly, they are both seated on the settee adjacent to Myka. I find that I am in no way shocked that Doyle had befriended Myka. As it turns out they began exchanging pleasantries while I was driving the carriage when we all met that night, and they have continued to speak to one another during Myka's trials of sorts. Myka confessed this to me last night after both of our tears had dried and we were both eager to discuss something lighter in topic.

It is of course rational to me that Myka would be enthralled by another writer, and a Warehouse agent as well as a charming man of many skills. Now though upon observing them together I must say I wasn't prepared for the natural rapport that has developed between them; not to say that I'm envious or anything of the sort. I will not carry that affliction mostly due to the fact that I know Myka's true feelings towards me, and emotions of that magnitude is what I imagine has inspired a great many poets, wordsmiths and even fiction writers like me through the ages.

"Tell me something, Ms. Bering." Doyle says. "In the future do my books ever find an audience? I know Wells here will never want for readers since she is and will most likely always be ahead of the times."

"Please call me Myka and yes your books will be celebrated, in fact your stories are still popular in my time...Sir Arthur Conan Doyle." She says and then smiles directly at me. "And yes, H.G. Wells is still as relevant as ever."

I smile back at Myka before I look to Doyle who is oddly silent, but I watch as his eyes open wider, "Sir? You mean to imply that I will be knighted at some point in the future?"

"This won't hurt anything, but yes specifically on October 24th, 1902 by King Edward VII for your services to the Crown during the Boer War."

"Services during a war?" Doyle says. "Good Lord, don't tell me that I will be gallivanting off to war at the age of forty-two?"

"I can't tell you any more than that," Myka says with a chuckle. "Ignatius."

Doyle laughs as do Wolly and I, for I wasn't aware of any other middle name.

"You play most unfair madam." Doyle says. "But you are one to talk my dear Ophelia."

"You know I used to punch my partner Pete when he teased me about my middle name." Myka says while narrowing her eyes at Doyle which makes me chuckle. "I'm only sparing you because well you're a really famous author who I read as a child and I can't bring myself to hit you...yet."

"Should I be offended that you just admitted to reading Doyle's works of fiction?" I say only now feeling the need to actively participate in their conversation.

Myka turns her attention away from Doyle and smiles at me again, "No, you shouldn't because I've read everything of yours too. My father used to read me some of your stories when I was little; I grew up listening to your words."

If it were not for my partner and friend in the room I would walk over to Myka and pull her up to me so that I may kiss her soundly. In this moment I do not know if I will be capable of telling her good-bye even if it is only for a short while.

"Oh God Ms. Bering, I mean Myka. I do wish you hadn't told H.G. that." Wolcott says with a smile. "Her ego already barely fits through the Warehouse's front doors."

Doyle laughs and I do as well, for it is a welcome distraction from the state of flux my thoughts have been in for several days now.

"Wolly, a lady is entitled to her pride just the same as a man, but speaking for myself as a lady I have been informed that I am better than most men at a great many things."

"H.G. really!" Wolcott exclaims and Doyle and I share a chuckle at my partner's expense.

Myka is amused but I catch a reddening upon her cheeks just as she turns her head to hide it from this room's many sets of observant eyes.

Doyle rises off the settee and collects his hat off the small oval table just opposite it, "Wolcott and I thought we would bring our new friend Myka out to see you before you left. I trust you don't mind our initiative to help you both?"

"Of course not it was extremely kind of you, Mr. Doyle." I say as Myka turns back to look at me once more.

"Good then." Doyle says while he places his hat upon his head. "Wolly and I must be off now; a curiosity is calling our respective names."

I smirk, "What exactly have you two been assigned to investigate?"

Wolcott sighs, "A burlesque show. It seems that there is a...fatal corset or God knows what, because Doyle has been withholding the details from me since we were notified an hour ago."

Doyle snickers and I see that Myka is also thoroughly amused but she clears her throat and shifts in her chair to address Wolly.

"Isaac, don't feel bad in my time at Warehouse Thirteen I had to snag and bag a pair of men's workout shorts." Myka says with a smile. "They manipulated a person's density; making them stronger, faster. But the downside was that after you wore them...well let's just say the person would end up flattening everything in sight, including themselves eventually."

"Surely you jest?" Wolcott says. "No wait, what the devil am I saying of course that's true."

It seems almost foreign to me to hear Myka address Wolly by his first name. Lord knows I mostly call him by the nickname I bestowed on him.

"Myka, I have enjoyed talking with you and I hope to do so again," Wolcott says rather shyly. "And you may call me 'Wolly' if you would like to."

I cross my arms over my chest and lower my head to mask the smile that I cannot stop from springing forth, for I find it rather endearing that my partner has a minor infatuation with my intended. But I am not of the jealous sort and Wolly is harmless, and truthfully it is apparent to me that his interest is from a place of respect and awe; perhaps some romantic inkling have flitted about his thoughts, but knowing him it is plain to me that the majority of his intent lies within the realm of friendship.

"It was nice talking to you again Wolly." Myka says with a smile while offering her hand which he takes in his briefly.

"Good luck, and I do hope you consider being an agent with the rest of us." Wolcott says and I look up in surprise at Doyle who simply shrugs.

Wolly scoffs, "Oh, don't look so surprised H.G. I shall have you know that I am good at snooping, just not at your place of residence."

My partner smiles shyly at Myka as he rises out of his position on the settee. A silence lingers in the room and as Wolly bends over to retrieve his black hat from where Doyle had placed his. I hope they haven't gotten their hats mixed, for it would be an easy feat since they are indentical in color and shape.

"Come on Wolly lets leave these lovely ladies alone." Doyle says and Wolly scoffs and places his hat on his head rather roughly. "And go pester some partially unclothed ones."

"You sir are still not funny." Wolcott says and we all repress a chuckle once again at my partner's expense.

"I will not even beg to differ with that false accusation, my good sir." Doyle says as he and Wolcott move past me at the center of the room. "H.G. and I are quite the humorists and you Wolly are our favorite bear to poke with a stick."

I watch after my two friends; smiling as I listen to their bickering until they are out of sight and my range of ability to hear them.

"They are fun to be around." Myka says and I relax my almost sentry position and walk towards her. "I can't say I'm surprised that the Arthur Conan Doyle is funny. I mean in his books Sherlock is funny, but not in the same way Doyle is. You know in a way Holmes reminds me of you, Helena."

I chuckle and shake my head as I stop my advance on Myka. I am close enough that she will have to look up at me now from her still seated position.

"I was informed only a little over a week ago now that I am Doyle's muse on the character of whom you speak."

Myka laughs while she glances up at me, "That's really...flattering Helena if you really think about it and trust me when I say that Sherlock Holmes is a cherished character in fiction." She pauses and bites her lower lip and I'm transfixed by the small action. "I just realized that what happened at the Borley Rectory with the Black Shuck will influence his most famous Holmes novel."

"I know, Doyle informed me that very night he intended to write about our adventure."

Myka chuckles and rises out of the seat and closes the remaining distance to stand in front of me; leaving only a small wisp of space between our bodies.

"Do you want me to tell you what the title of his book will be?" Myka says while reaching for my hands, and I glance down at the contact before looking up to meet her affectionate gaze.

"That won't be necessary." I say and the outright want I hear in my voice is startling, but we have much more important matter's that we should be discussing. I take a step back from her but I do not let go of her hands. "Myka...I have to leave."

She nods and closes her eyes then simply leans forward; my eyes close on anticipation of a kiss, however what I feel is not her lips but her forehead meeting mine.

"I know Helena."

"Wells, your carriage is here and Caturanga will be accompanying you and Ms. Bering."

It takes a second for me to recognize Agent McShane's voice. I have been so distracted by Myka that I did not hear his arrival nor his departure, for when I open my eyes and turn my head away from her; he is nowhere in sight. With a few changes of clothes already packed and loaded on board of the carriage all that remains is saying good-bye. That thought triggers an unpleasant memory of Myka's that I now carry as my own, just like my counterpart in the future.

I know she exists still because I do not elect to be bronzed until a little after my thirty-third birthday and I have absolutely no intention of partaking in that to ensure a future that nobody wishes to see; least of all myself and Myka. She of course came home with me but we weren't left alone. Caturanga was with us at every turn until I excused myself to dismiss the maid and cook for the next few days. I surmise that my teacher is here to see me off and to ensure Myka's return to the Regents custody.

"Where is Myka?" I say while descending the staircase. "You've not taken her away already have you?"

Caturanga simply looks at me with a fondness and I see my conflicted reflection staring back at me from the lens of his glasses, "Ms. Bering is waiting outside and I thought I would wait in here; inspect your marvelous chessboard once again, to allow you both some privacy to say good-bye."

My teacher has never failed to strike me as the most understanding person I have ever encountered; next to Myka now of course.

"Thank you."

"You are most welcome my dear." Caturanga says while walking past me; heading towards my parlor. "And not to worry I shall lock up for you."

I turn away from the sight of Caturanga fixated on my chess table; his scrutiny of the pieces lit only by a few small candles. I inhale deeply while straightening my vest and pull down the sleeves of my shirt. I collect my overcoat from its perch and pull it on over my frame. I have told myself over and over that I am not telling her good-bye, because it is not as if I have no intention of returning.

Now I almost wish I hadn't sent my daughter away with my brother, but this is the time of year when we normally visit our relatives and the home both Charles and I were born in. If Christina were here I would have already allowed Myka to meet her, but I was being cautious with someone I regarded as a stranger; not to say that my actions are suddenly wrong. It has been almost three days since I have seen my daughter and I miss her terribly, but I have someone new in my life that I have already begun to miss and we've yet to part.

Having gathered my resolve I twist the doorknob and pull the front door open. The evening air is frosty already and the sun has yet to set, and it's in this dying light that I see Myka waiting for me by the carriage. She turns to look at me and I am treated to the most beautiful smile I have been on the receiving end of as of yet. It brings with it a memory that was given to me by Myka: 'You will never lose this friend,' I assured her even though the look upon my face screams to me that 'friend' is not the word that my future self was thinking or feeling, and to my relief though I see no tears in Myka's eyes for me in this time.

As I move down the steps she laughs nervously as I draw nearer to her, but her eyes never leave mine.

"Helena please don't look so sad, even I know this isn't 'good-bye'; it's more like 'I'll see you later'."

Myka has such a lovely voice and in our brief time together it has never failed to soothe me; this is no exception. Still though I have no words to offer her except one's that I know she will not warm to, but alas as I stop in front of her I realize that I must ask even though I know the answer to my request.

"You could come along with me if you like. I could possibly convince Caturanga to allow you." I say while my hands begin to fidgit in my nervousness. "My family will be meeting you at one point in time. So why ever not now?"

Myka moves closer to me and takes both of my hands in hers; stilling them, and I find myself being drawn into the boundless compassion that is simmering and enhancing the green of her eyes.

"You need more time to process all this and more importantly you need to see Christina." Myka says. "I'll be here when you get back, Helena."

"Myka I am not like her; this is hard for me and I have only known you a short while." I say while feeling the threat of oncoming tears. "How my future self could have let you go after knowing how wonderful you are, for years are beyond what I can rationalize as sound judgment."

"Helena please don't cry." Myka says. "Not that I don't love seeing this side of you too because I do. It's just too many tears have been shed already and I can't cry about it anymore; neither should you, so go be with your family."

Next to being willfully ensnared by her eyes I am also drawn to the warm smile that has diverted all of my attention to her lips.

"No more tears then." I say while pressing my body into Myka's while bringing my hands up to touch her face. Her breath stills and even though the cloak of dusk is hiding us away from prying eyes, I know that her action is born of fear; not that this good-bye, but the fear that this rings so close to the many other times we have had to bid farewell to one another. "Myka breathe and for God's sake please kiss me."

Myka laughs and I feel her arms around my waist as she pulls me to her for a sweeter means to an end. My eyes close as my world tilts on its axis to better connect with her's, or at least that's what I am likening the feeling of kissing her to. A firm insistence, yet a soft yielding press and I will myself not to deepen the kiss with the use of my tongue. It is difficult to focus on any one thing to tide me over until I return to her, but one thing I will carry with me is the warmth in my chest that merely thinking of her name brings. Moments like these cannot last forever; even if such a notion were at all conceivable. So with one last tug on her bottom lip I free us but I am still bound; willingly so, as three words want to come forth.

"Don't say it now, Helena." Myka says and her lovely voice breaks ever so faintly on my name. "When you see Christina and the rest of your family, the shock of this will wear off and I really hope it does."

I smile and run my hands along her shoulders; feeling the smooth leather under my touch.

"Are you already presuming to tell me about my heart, darling?"

Myka smiles in understanding and for me it is refreshing to know how completely she does know me, even when I am being less than serious with my words.

"No, not really." Myka says. "I would just like to start over with you and make everything as easy as it can be this time around." Her words are but a breath passing across my lips before she leans in to kiss me once more and it is far too brief for my liking but it is getting late. "I'll see you when you get back."

It is with great reluctance that I pull my body away from her's and climb into the waiting carriage; with the horses themselves eagerly sounding out their impatience at me with an occasional stomp and nicker. I sit down on the bench and close the door, and then with a slap of the reins from the driver the carriage begins to move. I try to force myself not to look out the portal but it is a fresh promise that I cannot keep. I reach out and push aside the privacy curtain so that I can watch Myka becoming smaller and smaller on the sidewalk in front of my home, until she is gone for now.

There is no doubt in my mind that she will be waiting, but as my carriage turns a corner a memory of Myka watching my figure fade in the night flashes to the front of my thoughts; only this time it is me leaving her in the diminishing light of the evening. But Myka is right again and more so that she should be, after all she has seen more than I have in my twenty-eight years upon this Earth. I hope that once I'm on the train to Kent that maybe its steady countenance will lull me into a peace. Not that I wish to sleep during my journey, for I feel so different about the notion of being awake; now that my eyes have been shown a greater sight than the horizons I had grown accustomed to.

* * *

**Soundtrack: ****"Laying Down The Law" by Inxs, "Wonderwall" by Oasis &amp; "Change The World" by Finger Eleven **

**Parting Words:****Special thanks go out to john6lisa for being this story's biggest supporter. More to be delivered for you my friend and everyone else along on this ride, which by the way I appreciate just as much too.**


	12. Chapter XII: What Happens?

**XII. What Happens?**

* * *

**_Epilogue_**

When I returned from Kent with Christina and Charles a part of me was concerned with exactly I how I would explain myself to my brother and then my daughter. When I thought of the most proper way of informing them that I had found someone special or rather someone special found me, the task almost seemed an impossible issue to approach. I had no personal struggles with telling Charles what I felt he needed to know about this person; my daughter was a different matter. But how does one explain to a two and half year old child that their mother has found their counterpart?

I resolved to tell it to my daughter as though it were a story; conjured to capture her imagination and inspire goodness, essentially identical in many respects to the ones I read aloud to her when I put her to bed. While in my head I resolved that in the future when Christina is much older I will tell her the unabridged truth with or without Warehouse approval. For I know that a time will come in my life that I will not allow my every action to be governed by my place of employment, especially when the time comes that I will be working there no longer.

The afternoon that Myka met Christina for the first time was more than I could have hoped to happen. We had been back from Kent for nearly a month and Christmas was but a day away; Myka and I had seen one another frequently since my return, but she repeatedly declined my invitations to my home until the day before. When the maid showed Myka into the parlor where Christina and I were my heart nearly stopped, and my daughter's attentions were also stolen away. To me it was as though Myka had magically appeared in a lovely green dress no less, that brought out her eyes and thus made her all the more startlingly gorgeous.

Christina recognized Myka as the woman from the story I told her, and then proceeded to tell Myka in her own adorable way that essentially my story did not do her justice. That same afternoon I very much wanted to tell Myka how I felt about her but again from the look that was directed at me I decided not to. However, that night after dinner she stayed with me in my bed for the night. I did not want her to leave in those early morning hours after our night together, but once more her logic won out. She wished that my daughter not see someone that she had just met the day before lingering around the house as if they resided there.

* * *

The first time I told Myka that I loved her happened two months after I returned from Kent; by then I was absolutely bursting to say those words to her. I managed to refrain from saying them during the throes of our passionate nights together; God the way she moans my name alone is enough for anyone to starting spouting such things. But each time of those many nights she would fall asleep after we would spend so hard together, and no matter what my heart was saying I still felt it was not the right moment nor setting for a genuine declaration.

Strangely or perhaps in a fitting fashion it was one evening when Myka was with me in the Warehouse doing the mundane task of inventory that laid the ground work. I had no intention of professing my deepest declaration while at work. So after few weeks had passed since Myka arrived in this time she chose to aide in a limited fashion at the Warehouse, for she had yet to decide if she wished to be an agent once again, in spite of the fact that she had long since been approved by the Regents and Mr. Frederic to be a full field agent from the start.

"Helena."

"Yes darling."

Myka laughs, "You know I never gave you permission to call me that in my old life or this one, but yet both times it feels natural and I've always liked it."

I chuckle as I move down the opposite side of the aisle that we both are accounting artifacts for. I look up from the pages and through space between the shelves, the small artifacts that line the shelves to look at her.

"Good, for I do enjoy calling you that and it came very natural to me also."

Myka pauses but does not look up from her own pages, "Are you ever going to say it?"

"Say what precisely?" I say even though I know what she is inquiring after.

"Alright, if that's how you want to play it H.G. But just so you know you're allowed to say those three words anytime you feel like it." Myka says while continuing to look down at her pages as she moves down the aisle a little further ahead from me. "Because I'm more than ready to hear it now."

I chuckle again and move down the aisle so that I can look directly at her since the artifacts near the end of this aisle are very small and will not impede my line of sight; a breath stealing one at that.

"I am still not sure exactly what you mean, darling?"

Myka looks up and narrows her eyes at me while biting her lower lip, which is a display that I have come to find just as endearing as it is arousing.

"Alright, you either say that you love me or I will not be coming home with you tonight. Which also means that I will not be keeping you warm in bed tonight either."

I try to hold in my laugh because as surely as serious as she sounds there was also an unmistakably playful manner intoned into those words too.

"That is shameful behavior on your part to threaten a lady with such a thing, Ms. Bering."

Myka closes her eyes and I see that she is trying not to laugh at my falsely wounded tone. And it is in that moment I quickly, but quietly hurry to the end of the aisle and walk around to her side.

"You can't sneak up on a trained Secret Service Agent, H.G." Myka says while turning around to face me. "No matter how old she actually is."

"I wasn't trying to, darling." I say while moving closer to her. "I merely thought you would want me close when I professed my undying love?"

Myka's eyes sweep over my body very quickly but her eyes choose to settle on mine, "You're lucky that I love you so much Helena, or I wouldn't allow you what you call 'affections' for a week."

"If you were to follow through with that threat Ms. Bering you would suffer the same as I."

Myka laughs and then after a few more rounds of enjoyable teasing we task ourselves to finish assessing the inventory, but not before I closed the space between us and kiss her soundly. I don't mind that my unspoken declaration in the Warehouse is my answer in essence, for her recognition as to how I feel towards her. Later that same evening over tea and chess I spoke those three words for the very first time aloud, and in reaction I do hope from now on that when Myka thinks of chess it will be a happy memory from that moment forth.

* * *

Charles gradually warmed to Myka over the years; one would think that my brother did not approve of my lifestyle as he coined it once when we were younger. But I found that his true distaste lied with the fact that I had fared better than him in terms of suitors. In fact for a brief period I was concerned that he may take liberties with Myka. It was no small relief on my part when that did not happen as he assured me himself that he had no salacious intentions towards her. Upon reflection I realized that Myka would have injured him had he made any unwelcome advances towards her.

However, last year I opted to buy that new home for Myka and our children. Charles' name had to be on the deed for in the end we all agreed it was necessary to keep up the illusion of H.G. Wells. But strictly focusing on this day the 21st of September, 1899, which is my thirty-third birthday. In just under two months from now it will be six years since I met Myka; a time traveler who came from the future to rescue me from myself. A time traveler that wanted to save my heart from being broken, and the time that has passed with Myka thus far has been everything one could hope for.

This past July some men vandalized my cousin's home in Paris exactly as Myka foretold all those years ago. Only this time Christina was safely at home with me, as was my cousin; both out of harm's way thanks to Myka's efforts. Christina is eight and a half now and growing up too fast for my liking, and to this day every time I hear her call Myka her mum my heart feels as though the cavity of my chest will not be able to contain it for much longer. I had always hoped to find someone special to share my daughter with.

An event that I look forward to is that the watchful eyes of The Regents will finally turn away from Myka and I at the end of this year, for by then the events of my future self will be completely undone. Granted six years of careful observation has been unwelcome a great many times, but at least it has been done as discretely as possible and we were never once denied the opportunity to see each other. Nor were we denied when I requested that Myka be allowed to move into my home after having been here in this time after nearly a year.

Our time together as of the last three years has been different due to family obligations, and I do not solely mean Christina. For neither she nor any other family member is the reason for our limited time lately, that honor falls to our other daughter that Myka gave us nearly three years ago. Myka and I used an artifact so she is biologically ours in every way, and Catherine Jocelyn Wells is blessed with Myka's beautiful green eyes.

When we were at a point in our relationship Myka decided that she wanted a child with me, and she did not desire that I grow some virile appendage, or I for that matter. Therefore with permission from the Regents we chose a fertility statue of Laima; a Baltic goddess of fate and only women could participate in the rituals to invoke her. Needless to say it was my touch alone that impregnated Myka, and many months later she was angry with me over said affections while delivering our daughter.

So tonight for my birthday I can think of only one gift that I wish to unwrap, and she is pacing about our bedroom while brushing out her long dark curly brown hair. And speaking of hair I chose to let mine revert back to its naturally straight condition. I admitted to Myka that I preferred how I looked with it based on what I saw of myself from her memories of my future self, and now I am the same age as that person.

I have yet to change out of my clothes for the evening, which consists of a rather nice dark green dress with black accenting lacework around an open collar and thankfully no corset; I have sworn off wearing those damned things. I chose this dress for my birthday dinner because Myka loves it when I wear green, almost as much as she loves it when I wear one of my many vests or when I have no clothing on at all.

"Myka darling, care to reenact the night we made our daughter without the obvious result of course?" I say teasingly. "After all, two children are more than enough for anyone in my mind."

She smiles while moving closer to me, "It was always my plan to give you birthday sex as we called it in my time. Or as you say 'a proper ravishing'." Myka says imitating my accent on the last few words which in turn makes me smile.

"Well then it would appear that I am blessed being that it is still in fact my birthday." I say while glancing at the clock on the fireplace's mantle in our bedroom; as it chimes the hour, just one left until it will be midnight.

* * *

Myka told me stories of the missions my future self accompanied her on. So imagine my delight when Myka decided to be an agent once more after our youngest daughter Catherine was old enough to be left with our caregiver Sofie. I admit it was always difficult for me to leave Myka and our two daughters to accompany Wolly on missions, but it always made coming home all the sweeter. So before Catherine and now after; sometimes Myka and I will pair up for missions and Wolly with the youngest McShane seeing as he is a full agent now, like his older brother. But in those early days when Myka wasn't sure if she wanted to go back out chasing artifacts daily it was always Wolly and I, and later on he found it most entertaining to be a part of 'Wells &amp; Bering' missions.

It's today that I willfully acknowledge that my mind is being held captive by the past, for just two days ago it was precisely six years since that night that I met Myka. But on this night we are not in the English countryside but in Paris; carefully making our way back through the opera house Palais Garnier since we have retrieved the unruly counter-weights that supports the grand chandelier. They are unruly because of the particular materials that went into the failed counter-weights that supported the massive ornament, which in turn is what caused it to fall from the ceiling which unfortunately killed a member of the audience during a performance.

The opulent chandelier weighs six and a half tons and is pure bronze and crystal, so one of my latest innovations was called for to shrink it down to a manageable size so that Myka and I could remove the tainted counter-weights, and replace them with new ones that had already been brought in under the guise of repairs and renovations. As Myka and I walk back down the grand staircase which is made of white Italian marble. I cannot help but glance down and marvel at the sight underneath my feet; a marble rainbow. The staircase made up of white, from Italy, green and red from Sweden, French jasper marble and onyx marble and when assembled together the visage lends itself to distraction and then demands your outright appreciation.

"This would be quite a grand setting for a gothic novel." I say. "If I were interested in writing a story of that nature."

"Funny you should say that because a writer named Gaston Leroux is using this place as the setting for a novel he is currently writing." Myka replies. "But it won't be published until 1910; his inspiration is the legend of a ballerina's skeleton that was uncovered here, and of course the very real chandelier incident."

"Fascinating, so tell me what is this masterpiece of fiction going to be called?"

"The Phantom of the Opera."

I laugh because the title is good and proper enough for a gothic horror story, which I surmise is why the author will choose such a blunt combination of words.

"Do you think we will be seeing this phantom tonight, darling?"

"I should think not but who knows." Myka replies as we reach the landing of the grand staircase. "But honestly right now I don't want to think about anything else, but how heavy these things will be once they revert back to their original size."

I smile for she is carrying one half of the counter weights in a bag and I the other half.

"Not to worry for I will just give them another dose of the miniaturized version of my Shrink Ray gun." I say while turning to face her. "You know I hadn't considered a hand-held would be as effective with that device, although it certainly is more compact, but as result it is nowhere near as powerful as the full scale version."

Myka smiles and we start walking once more. In silence save for the sounds of our footwear sounding out our movement upon the marble flooring; I find myself absorbing our surroundings. I had been to this establishment once before to see a performance, but that was many years ago and I had almost forgotten the wonderment this place was meant to inspire. And on this night the building in all its marble glory has seemingly soaked up the moonlight shining in overhead, for even with no artificial light to guide us the way is lit just the same.

The interior itself consists of interweaving corridors, stairwells, alcoves and landings that allow for the movement of large numbers of people and space for socializing. All of which are adorned in velvet, gold leaf, while cherubims and nymphs scattered about the interior as well is characteristic of the grandiose Baroque sumptuousness. And as if that were not enough many grand columns and lavish statues of a variety of deities from Greek mythology are also an integral part of this palace's elegant charm.

However even this building's overall decadence doesn't draw my eyes quite the way Myka does. I would be lying if I were to say that the way Myka dresses for missions is not very arousing to me. For every time Myka wears her tailored black coat with covered buttons, paired with a matching waistcoat that does nothing but accentuate her svelte frame, and underneath the daring shade of black is a simple white short turnover collar shirt. The whole combination enhances all of her extremely feminine assets, and the way her backside appears in those tailored trousers she insists on. I swear it takes all the restraint I possess to not push her on the nearest available surface and have my way with her.

"Do you regret it at all darling; leaving your own time to be here with me?" I say in an effort to get my mind off vertical and horizontal fantasies that revolve around the woman that I share my life with.

I pose this question to Myka at least once a year around our anniversary and every time the answer is the same yet different?

"No." Myka says. "But I still miss Claudia sometimes; she was all I had left, but she understood. Besides she became the caretaker of Warehouse Fourteen, so I imagine she will see a great many things during her ageless tenure."

"I wouldn't have minded meeting Ms. Donovan." I say with a smile while glancing sideways at the woman by my side. "From the way you have spoken of her it sounds like we would have gotten along swimmingly."

Myka smiles brightly and the only way I would ever miss it is if I were to be rendered blind.

"Claudia would've loved you too Helena, if for no other reason than to have someone to tinker and make gadgets with."

Myka's answer makes me smile for it remains the same and every time I hear about her old life it makes me feel special, for she truly meant starting over with me yet somethings will never change between us in any time. And the issue that will never change is with Myka's assistance even in the future I had people that came to care for me, but my future self failed to recognize or even acknowledge those precious ties until it was far too late. And even when she was given another chance the other Helena chose to let them go again. Given the years I have spent pondering my future self's actions I fear I will never truly understand her motivations to be anything other than madness.

"Another foggy night." Myka says as we exit through one of the private backdoors for the performers of this opera house. "It seems like every night this time of year in Europe is straight out of the pages of a gothic novel."

I chuckle as we walk towards our waiting carriage, "Darling, I am confident that America has its own haunts if the novel 'Sleepy Hollow' is anything to go by."

Myka smiles and opens the secret artifact compartment mounted behind the carriage, "I'm glad you liked that book; it was always one of my favorites."

* * *

I returned from my last mission with Wolly today, just as the cornerstone was struck in Univille, South Dakota. Accordingly as I walk down the aisles to where Myka is I find myself wondering if she was always meant to travel back to this time, or had the Regents selected that isolated location long before Agent Bering journeyed from the future to talk about her life as an agent of Warehouse Thirteen. I also find myself not as sad as I would've thought at the prospect of no longer being an agent; each country supplies its own and I'm not an American. For a while now I've caught myself asking Myka if she would like to move back to America, especially now, and I may still ask in due time.

"You know I did promise Pete that I would let him know I made it and I'm safe and happy." Myka says as I come to stand beside her. "He was my best friend first and I really wish we'd just left it at that, maybe our friendship would've survived after the mistake of our romantic relationship, but maybe now that won't matter anymore, since I won't be there to make that mistake with him. I'll remember but I hope that he won't."

I watch after Myka as she places her Secret Service badge and other modern identification in a small wooden shipping crate in what will become the H.G. Wells section of the now forming Warehouse Thirteen. I still built my time machine as not to disrupt the time continuum any further, but I never used it because it did not matter to me if it worked or not. All my other inventions; the Impreceptor Vest and my Grappler shall stay with me. However, rather unfortunately I might add, that my latest creation the Shrink Ray both the large incarnation and the small tesla sized version will be going along with the Warehouse to America.

"I wouldn't have imagined no longer being an agent; for some reason when I first started I thought the Warehouse would remain in England indefinitely." I say. "But now my life is different and I'm ready to let it all go with a pure peace of mind."

"I know what you mean and eleven years is a good run H.G." Myka says as she places the lid on the small crate and then turns around to face me. "I gave Warehouse Thirteen all I had and more, but at the same time I got to meet one of my hero's."

I feel my heart beat a little faster because I know she is implying meeting me; both times I would imagine.

"Am I still your hero darling?"

Myka laughs and the sound carries in the emptiness, past the disappearing shelves, until it dissolves in this vast space. She gives me one of those smiles of her's that reminds me in the simplest of ways exactly how much she loves me; no one has ever looked at me the way Myka does, and then the scent of apples fills the air.

"You're much more than just my hero." Myka says. "You are literally the person I would do anything for, with absolutely no regrets or remorse because you have my heart. And I would give it to you a million times more and over as many lives that I exist."

I feel my eyes warm with tears and my heart beats a bit too fast, "And here I thought I was the one that has a way with words."

Myka moves closer to me and does not stop until I feel her body against mine, "I guess I'm lucky then that I spend my days and nights with this incredible writer who is never short on them; you might have heard of her, she's very good, no scratch that...great. For example: 'It is possible to believe that all the past is but the beginning of a beginning, and all that has been is but the twilight of the dawn. It is possible to believe that all the human mind has ever accomplished is but the dream before the awakening.'

I smirk and through tears I close the small distance between us and kiss her; she was my inspiration when I wrote those words. I know I can never formally marry her, and honestly the idea of it now seems more like an institution designed for the increasing idea of capitalism. However, the ritual of promising myself to her alone is very appealing but maybe rather late after seven years together. Although I do not think Myka needs such an outward display, but be that as it may I might still ask, even though I already know her answer and the reasons behind it.

"I smell apples." Myka says, her lips grazing mine with each almost whispered word.

"Me too."

**[END]**

* * *

**Soundtrack:****"Simple Man" by Deftones, "The Sinner Is You" by Volbeat &amp; "The Epilogue" by Crosses**

**Final Words:** **So many stories exist where H.G. is in the future making her way, so I thought the reverse and more would be worth a look that and I always loved her WH12 throwback glimpses in the show. I thought about H.G. without all the tragedy and then Myka became the damaged one (season five did that to her.) Plus telling a story within a story...my cracky version of how "The Hound Of The Baskervilles" and whatnot came to be, also 'Sir Conesey' the Warehouse Agent was just laughs to write. I thought the ideal of it all could be fun, even if it appealed to absolutely no one else but myself. I put everything I had into this and I'm proud of the end result. In closing 'Thank You' for reading this because you actually wanted to get lost in a period/gothic-themed WH12 version of Wells &amp; Bering. And now that you're done with this check out 'House Of Wolves' in the M-rated section for the deleted scene from this chapter if you feel inclined to do so.**


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